the pieces of my life

My kids have figured out how to game my FitBit.

I admit it: I’m a slave to my FitBit (and, boy, I wish someone were paying me to proselytize about the FitBit, but this is all just me; and for you Luddites out there, a FitBit is a very fancy pedometer). I compete with friends for steps, most notably the Duchess. This is a blood sport, my friends. No joke. Many a night, I say to Adam, “S**! I’ve got another 1200 steps to reach my goal and the Duchess is way ahead,” so I stay put wherever I am and march in place. (Adam once asked, “Do you think the Duchess ever just marches in place, cursing your name?” I checked with her husband: She does indeed!)

I have made my kids suffer for the FitBit. “We’ll walk there!” I say, to which they groan, but don’t even bother complaining because they know it’s hopeless. The other night, my son, sick in bed, asked me to go get him a glass of water. “Really?” I asked. “Now? Because the FitBit is charging, so any steps I take won’t be recorded, which means they are POINTLESS STEPS! I do not tolerate POINTLESS STEPS!” But he gave me his sick face (okay, so he had strep) so I got him the glass of water. But I was bitter about it.

On our trip to Iceland, I had the following conversation with my children:
Me: So how can we get back to the hotel, but manage to take 2,000 steps to do so?
Pie: How would you know it’s 2,000 steps?
Doodles: Are you kidding? She’s using child labor for her FitBit.

This past Saturday I went to Shabbat services. But I actually considered not going, because wearing the FitBit with a dress is near impossible. I either have to hook it on my bra or on the waist of my tights, neither of which is comfortable and both of which show through dresses. I did go. Without the FitBit. And I was bitter about it. I tried not to think of all those wasted, uncounted steps.

For a while, the kids fought the FitBit, but they’ve recently embraced it; they’ve learned they can make the FitBit work for them. The other night, my son was downstairs. “Mom, can you go upstairs and get my book for me?” he asked.

“You’ve got legs!” I said. “Use them!”

He batted his eyelashes at me. “I’m just trying to help you get more FitBit steps!”

I got him the book.

The girl knows now the magic nighttime words are “I don’t have enough steps!” She’ll often ask me in the evening, “Do you have enough steps?” Because she knows if the answer is “no,” then she’s guaranteed a good half hour of Just Dance with me.

Because the steps must be achieved.

The kids know to fear those days when I stop suddenly and say, “I forgot my FitBit!” Because where ever we are, no matter what we are doing, I will return home for it. The one or two times I couldn’t do this, I spent a day watching the Duchess rack up the steps without me. And I was bitter about it.

Have a FitBit? Let me know. I’ll compete against you, too. Really, it’s all just fun and games (as long as I’m winning. No competitive streak here, thank you very much. And no, I’m not marching in place while I type. At least, not much).

Hockey season is fully underway. Tonight was the boy’s first game of the season after a few weeks of scrimmages. Full ice for him this year, and late ice times (so far he’s had practice/games at 7:40 p.m. on Sunday nights!)

The girl had her final day of soccer today. She loves the sport and watching her play is a joy: She truly gives it her all. The New York Times recently ran an article about how hideous running photos turn out. You feel like you’re a champ, giving it your all, and the race photos show a bloated middle-aged woman who looks like she’s out for a leisurely stroll. (“Runners with two feet on the ground look as if they are walking.”) Luckily, Pie has no such woes as this. You can tell that girl is flying.

Today, as the boy was putting in his many hockey pads–an event that takes him a good 20 minutes–I said, “Hey, Dad’s the only one without a sport!”

“You don’t have a sport,” the boy told me.

“I don’t?” I said, surprised.

“What?” he asked. “You mean running? That’s not a sport.”

Last weekend I ran a half. I started keeping track of my races late in the game, but it was the 14th half marathon I’ve run since I started counting. I promised myself I wouldn’t race anymore–training took the fun out of running for me and I grew to dread speed work and intervals and all the other miserable things you need to do to train–but I had a friend who wanted to run her first half. What kind of a loser would I be if I didn’t pace her?

I was pretty pathetic out there. I had gum surgery quite recently and my mouth is hyper sensitive to cold. Tap water makes the nerves in mouth scream in agony. So I was freaked at how to hydrate when the temps were just chilly enough to turn every water station into a waterfall of ice daggers to my mouth (note to self: work on metaphors). My brillant idea was about an 1/8 of a mile before each water station, I so elegantly dug out of my pants rear pocket a tube of Orajel. I gracefully opened it while running, slathered it on my finger, shoved it in my mouth, then put the tube back into my pants. It worked enough that I didn’t hurt myself on the run and had the bonus of disguising the taste of the gel, which I don’t like. My mouth was numb, but not so numb I couldn’t yell out drill-sergeant-esque insults to my running partner, my favorite one being “You can’t cry till you cross the finish line!” Her goal, she mistakenly admitted to me in mile 10, was a 2:20 half. She did it. She probably won’t ask me to run another race with her again, but I got her across in 2:18.

And I just saw the race photos. I look like I”m walking.

I’m not sporty, my ass.

I stink. I mean this in the most literal of ways (and for you, Dawn, I’ll add, “and I don’t say ‘literal’ lightly!”). You walk into our lovely, more or less clean house, and breathe in the freshness. Then, as you make your way upstairs, you’ll notice this dank, disgusting smell. It was stuffy. And gross. And it didn’t take me long to realize… it was my running clothes.

As you may or may not know, Pie has an extreme aversion to sweat and refuses to come near anyone when they are the least bit sweaty. She nearly had a conniption when she realized that Adam put her to bed post-boxing class but pre-shower. True, he was no longer actually sweaty. But the mere thought that sweat had once been on his body was enough to repel her. She won’t come near me once I’m in my running clothes even if I have not yet gone on my run. “After you shower,” is her refrain.

And smelling our upstairs, I sort of get it now. It’s not tough. It’s not sexy. It’s smelly. Yuck. I thought of putting the clothes directly into the basement where the washer is, but then the basement would be smelly. I don’t want to wash each set of running clothes individually, because that would be a waste of water. Besides, as is well documented, I don’t do laundry. (The one time I did–I think I was washing sheets for guests who were coming over–Adam looked at me with the basket of laundry and said, “So you do know where the washer and dryer are!” My parents like to feel they are innocent of all the childhood crimes inflicted upon me–my father insists all our family moves only made me stronger–but no one can deny that my parents traumatized me in the laundry department. I hated doing the family laundry so much, I took to hiding everyone’s clothes in my bottom dresser drawer so I didn’t have to fold them. This went on a while before people started realizing that their underwear piles were diminishing.)

Pie "built" a fairy house in an Audubon Park as part as an eco-art program. And by "build" I mean, she directed me on what to do, so she wouldn't get dirty. Or sweaty.

So now I shower with my gym clothes. I take them in the shower with me and try to rinse them with water. The bathroom is littered with drying gym clothes as well as various swimming paraphernalia. It’s charming. But considering that it’s been 90 percent humidity and I walk in from even my not-so-long runs literally (there I go again! But you know I mean it!) dripping with sweat, it’s necessary (seriously–some folks get these cute little patches of sweat; my clothes are drenched. I’ve actually been asked if I jumped into the reservoir or something because the sweat is dripping off of me. Boy, I’m painting a lovely picture for you guys, aren’t I? I hope you’re not reading this with your breakfast. If you are, sorry!).

I also stink in a figurative way (please hold off on the “duhs,” folks!). I know I haven’t been posting much. My nice relaxing summer is slipping away and in its place is this psychotic, over scheduled summer that consists of me constantly yelling at the kids, “Hurry up! We’re going to be late!” As of this morning, I have officially given up giving up caffeine. (That sentence is correct. Just read it again.) We’ll see if that improves things or makes it worse. Here’s a random sampling of some of the summer activities we’ve been doing:

Pie: swimming classes, piano lessons, dance camp, preschool camp, Kindergarten Connections (get togethers with other future kindergartners at her school), lots of trips to the library for more Rainbow Magic books (ugh!!) and the summer reading program, building fairy houses at an Audubon park, playdates

It was Pirate Week at Doodles's theater camp, and he made a papier mache parrot, learned pirate songs, and acted in a pirate play.

Doodles: swimming classes, drum lessons, robotics camp, invention camp, baseball camp (not a hit–he’s skipping the last day as it’s “boring”), theater camp (huge hit–he’ll be doing another week later this summer), lots of trips to the library for more books on the interest du jour (it’s been the Revolutionary War, wizards, acting, and the latest is Geronimo Stilton books, karate, and Japan) and the summer reading program

Me: chauffeuring, swimming lessons (yes, for me–I’m taking an advanced stroke techniques class as I’m determined to finally learn to the butterfly and perfect my crawl; who knows? There might be a tri in my future), marathon training, chauffeuring, a pilates/yoga class, working on a program at our synagogue, chauffeuring, trying to finish up the third draft of my novel (could I be close to done?), gardening, chauffeuring, waiting for the appliance repairman (the oven still isn’t fixed!), chauffeuring

Adam: Um, I’m actually not sure what Adam has been doing. I know he goes boxing and takes piano lessons. And he shaved his winter beard. But other than that, you’d have to ask his Blackberry what he’s been up to.

No taxation without representation!

As a family: trips to the Reservoir and the outdoor pool at the Y, a Boston Tea Party re-enactment on a lovely sailboat, camping, my parents in town, going to see Toy Story 3, our neighborhood 4th of July bike parade, our 4th of July BBQ

Adam and I have been managing to get out a little bit. We had an awesome date last week–I found a program through Audubon (I’m really trying to take advantage of our membership!) that was canoeing on the Charles River, followed by dinner. There were two other couples and three guides. We paddled on the river for an hour and then stopped to have a catered dinner by the side of the river. Delicious dinner in a lovely setting, and then we paddled more. Our paddling got cut short by thunder and lightening, but it just gave us an excuse to stop off for a drink on our way home, as we had the babysitter for a while longer. Finding a place to drink isn’t always easy in this part of the world, but Adam remembered that a hotel that his company had been to for an off-site was just off the highway so we stopped at the bar there. Oy! We were in our canoeing clothes amidst a sea of Boston’s version of Bridge and Tunnel. We found a corner, had a nice drink, and then ran into friends who joined us. It was an actual grown-up evening! And we’re scheduled to have another grown-up evening next week! Pigs are flying somewhere.

Normally, I’d scour this entry and look for ways to make it more interesting and witty, but the kids are antsy–we’re headed off to the MFA today–and if I don’t post something soon, my father will begin the harassing phone calls. And I wanted you to know why I stink, both literally and figuratively. If the next month of summer is anything like the first (has it only been one month since school ended? Yikes!), you’ll understand why the posts may be sparse. We still have more camping, a summer vacation, canoeing for Doodles, a family Insects and Ice Cream event, fencing for Doodles, a girls’ night out for me, a visit from the Tweedle Twirp and a visit from the Peter, birthday parties to attend and birthday parties to plan, more preschool camp for Pie, an animation class for Doodles…. I still haven’t figured out the WordPress/iPhone thing, but if I do, maybe I can post a bit more. But if not, happy summer! (Just six and a half weeks till school starts again. Just six and a half weeks till school starts again. Just six and a half weeks till school starts again…. Deep breaths….)

I announced to the kids on Monday morning, “Daddy’s going to be in London for a couple of days. It’s going to be just us.”

Doodles replied, with eyes open wide, “You’re not going to be able to run!”

I choose to believe that, when he said this, he meant, “Mom, I’m concerned for your health and well being because I know that running makes you strong” and not, “Ack, Mom, when you don’t get to run, you’re a bitch on wheels!” Both statements, I fear, are equally accurate.

I’ve been playing with my running routine, as last week a friend introduced me to Walden Pond. I mean, I knew it was there. I pass by it all the time. But I had never deigned to stop and swim. So last Friday at 5 a.m., she picked me up and we headed over. It was an unbelievably foggy day–we met with a friend who swims there every week and even she got lost in the middle of the pond–but the swimming was phenomenal. I’m a strong swimmer, but I’ve never loved doing it because, let’s face it, swimming back and forth, back and forth, back and forth… in a pool is about one of the most mind-numbing activities there is. It’s about equivalent of running on a treadmill (blah!!). But swimming in Walden Pond, that’s swimming! We were out an hour and a half that morning and then went back for another hour on Sunday. I could have easily and happily swam for twice as long. I was completely sore after, in a good way, and it was such a soothing way to workout. I think that next summer I’m going to add a triathlon into my summer racing schedule.

Speaking of racing schedules, I’ve been following a training program pretty hard core and I’m having a hard time getting to speed. I can’t decide if it’s the extra pounds or the old age, but my motor is just not revving. I have two half marathons–the BAA in October and the Maine Coast in November–and I’d like to PR at one of them (I think the BAA is my best bet). The way things are going, I’m not sure it’s going to be doable.

Last week I ran 31 miles, including intervals and tempo runs. For the tempo run, I was supposed to run five miles at an 8:09 pace, but I couldn’t get my body moving faster than 8:20. And then the intervals. I really despise interval running. Every Monday night I think, “Ugh, gotta go to bed early so I can do intervals tomorrow.” Every Tuesday morning I drag myself to the track. This week I had a sudden revelation as I was dying my way through my interval of 1 mile-400 rest-2 miles-800 rest-2 x 800 that I didn’t actually have to do intervals. No one was making me. It made me feel both better and worse to realize that only I was inflicting this pain on myself. And yet I keep doing it. Can’t help myself.

This week, with Adam gone, I’m deliberately taking it slow. The swim on Sunday. Yesterday, I ran after dropping Pie off at camp for five miles, and was so miserable in the 85 degree heat (today is day three of above 90 degree weather here) that I decided to take another rest day today. Tomorrow night I have a four-mile race, an hour swim on Friday, and a shorter long run on Saturday (I’ll probably stick to eight or ten miles). A nice, easy slow week meant to recharge the body.

And you know what else a slow week means? Bitch on wheels. Poor kids. Next week I’ll be running regularly again. And they can go back to having a (more or less) happy mom. In the meantime, hide.

Here I am. Me and my computer. Well, technically me and Adam’s computer. My computer seems to be on its last legs. Or RAMs. Or whatever the hell it is computers have. Once upon a time, I was a tech savvy person. Those days are gone. I know how to operate my iPhone. I know enough to want a new iPhone. But that’s pretty much it.

Of course, now that I’m having some good quality time with a computer, all I can think is, “Peach crisp is calling my name.” Adam adds, “Nothing Pizza Hut makes is good. You should blog that.” My father just called to tell me he sat next to Peter Greene on his plane ride to Miami. I, however, hadn’t heard of Peter Greene before.

I’ve decided it’s time to get back on the Weight Watchers wagon. Of course, now that I’m doing that, I’m obsessed with food. My BMI is actually in the healthy range right now at 23.3 But I’m anxious to improve my running PRs–so far I’ve signed up for six shorter runs (well, seven, but I’ve already run one) and I plan on signing up for a few halves–and the best way I know to run faster is to haul less weight. Runner’s World has an article this month about avoiding aches and pains, and it said if you’re doing longer runs, you really need to have a BMI lower than 21 to save your knees. I’m at that point of life that my knees need to be safeguarded. But that’s not going to happen. I’d have to lose fifteen pounds to get to a BMI of under 21 and 1) really? and 2) I’d be a little bony. I’m not exactly a small-boned gal, and 3) really? So now I’m obsessing over the peach crisp in the fridge that I made for our weekend guests, but on 18 points a day, that’s not happening. So–

Oooh! iPhone commercial! Shiny! Pretty.

Wait, where was I? Eh, there’s nothing more boring than a person watching his or her weight. But it might slip in sometimes. Because there’s nothing more obsessed than a person watching his or her weight. Did I mention the peach crisp? It is an exquisite peach crisp.

Of course, my son needs to be watching his weight. But in the other direction. The girl is solidly a pound heavier than the boy. That kid is a peanut. I measured both of them today: Doodles is 41″ and 38 lbs. Pie is 38″ and 39 lbs. (Does that make her more or less a square?) I still have him in his car seat in the minvan and he’s been a real trooper about being the only kindergartner in a full car seat. In Adam’s car we have him in a booster with a back. He’s definitely a full year away from the backless booster unless he has a serious summer growth spurt (the rules for the backless are 4 years old, 40 inches, and 40 pounds). I’m ready to cave and put him in a booster with back in our car (he’s more than big enough for that one. For that you need to be 3 years old, 38 inches, and 30 pounds). The five-point harness is the safest for as long as possible, but he’s suffered long enough.

I’m cooking for the boy. I’ve been making magic out of our Boston Organics delivery (a home veggie and fruit delivery service). I’ve been putting my haus frau skills to the test. One night, we have zucchini, peppers, and yellow squash. I didn’t want to make multiple meals. I peered in the fridge and we had cheddar cheese, salsa, green onion, and in the cabinet, I found a can of beans. So I made do-it-yourself burritos. But wait, tortillas? I didn’t have any tortillas. So I made them. From scratch. In time for a family dinner. I was pretty impressed with myself. Of course, Pie refused to eat them.

Me: Look, Pie. Even Doodles is eating them!
Doodles: Yeah! They’re good!
Me: See, Pie! They’re great! They’re even better than the store-bought kind.
Doodles: Well… I don’t think I’d say they were better.

Why do I even bother? Okay, no more food talk. I’ve got to go and not think about peach crisp.

Ah, Patriots’ Day. The start of spring break. Five days. Me and my kids. At home. With four days of predicted rain. Fun all around!

Actually, I love Patriots’ Day, as I attest every year. It’s like 4th of July, but with jackets and better parades. We started out the day at the marathon. This year they were more enthusiastic about going than last year. Of course, stopping at Whole Foods to buy them both their own box of bunny snacks (cheddar for him; snack mix for her) that they weren’t allowed to open till we got to the race helped tremendously. But we headed down to Framingham, and although we only saw one out of five friends who were running, it was definitely worth the trip. I’m determined that I’m not running another marathon this year, but watching those folks go make me doubt myself. “It wouldn’t hurt to do one more this year, a nice easy fall marathon.” Doodles was fine, coloring a poster, and Pie was fascinated, watching the runners go by. No matter how many times I told her it was not only okay, but encouraged, to use her “outside voice,” she just watched. But for me, I love yelling at the runners, calling out folks as they run by. We stayed an hour, after we saw the slowest of our runner friends (and Pie loved the fact that out of the five runners we knew, the four women beat the guy by over an hour [sorry, Fishy, just telling it like it is!]. A big shout out to Ana-Maria, Sue, Sue, and Saskia for not just finishing the race but really taking it to a new level–two qualified for next year’s race and the other two ran at speeds I can only dream about). When it was time to go, Doodles was ready, but Pie complained. “I want to see more runners!” then she asked, “I want to run marathons. Will you teach me how to run, Mommy?” Made my heart go, Zing! She’s definitely my baby.

We swung by Adam’s office to have lunch with him, which the kids adored. I’m not sure if Pie was more excited about lunch with Daddy or the chance to write on his white board, but she was thrilled. Then we headed back to Lexington. Pie was a little disappointed–“I want to see the runners again! Please can’t we go back and see the runners again?”–but then when she realized where we were going, she perked up. The kids were in their true spirits. Doodles was in full negative tilt: “I don’t want to go to a parade!” Pie was brimming with joy: “I love parades!”

Of course, toward the end, the temperature had dropped, the wind was blowing, and I asked, “Should we go?” and Pie said, “I’m ready,” but Doodles said, “No! It’s not over yet!” I have to learn to ignore everything that boy says and just make him do things, because he never wants to do anything and then always has a great time.

By the time we made it home, we were all exhausted and happy. Another successful Patriots’ Day. Now to think about that next marathon. For me. And who knows? Maybe, one of these days, for Pie.

My life revolves around routines. It’s what keeps me sane and organized. It’s what allows me to bake hamantaschen in time to give to Pie’s teachers, to bake hallah every Friday, to take classes here and there, to volunteer at the kindergarten and synagogue. It’s what keeps me up-to-date on this blog and on my e-mail. It’s what allows me to plan trips to Israel (or New York or Miami). It’s what keeps this house together. But most importantly in my little world it’s what gives me the freedom to be able to write creatively, to work on my novel. Routine gives me my haus frau extraoridinaire status (is mixing German and French cliches the same as mixing my metaphors?).

Can you guess what’s sorely lacking in our lives?

We haven’t had family dinners, I didn’t get to boot camp class, the Purim preparations were nil (at least I did get the boy his Darth Vader costume and I was able to find it used), and I can’t get to evening classes because I’m usually asleep these days by about 9:30 because I’ve spent the days unpacking and running errands at top speed.

We’re slowly getting out from under the boxes but we’re missing some basic pieces of furniture essential for getting things away (I don’t have a desk–my computer is set up on a card table–nor a shelf or file cabinet…; the kids playroom doesn’t have a single piece of storage equipment so it’s toys, toys, toys everywhere!), so those things are lingering in boxes. We have no shades yet so we spend our evenings dodging the many open windows (thank goodness it’s Beetle and her family who lives across the street, and I don’t care if they see us all in our PJs). My running has fallen by the wayside–I basically took two weeks off–figured my body could use a break–but man is it hard to get back to that routine! My first run after two weeks and it was like I hadn’t run in years. I barely made it four miles and I was sore the next day.

But that’s going to change. It’s time to reintroduce the routines! The Nana is here to help out–we’ll be hanging artwork, figuring out where to put what, meeting with someone to choose some window coverings, and perhaps even squeeze in a trip to Ikea or the Container Store. The weather is improving just enough that I can no longer use it as an excuse not to run (although I can always use daylight savings, as running in the dark at 6:30 is a total downer). And I’m going to get this office set ASAP so starting next week, when the kids are in school, I can get my writing routine back. I promise (well, I strongly intend) not to desert this blog again for such a long time, as it’s as hard getting back on the blog as it is to get back into those running shoes.

Starting now, it’ll be business as usual again. Now to catch up on that backlog of e-mails….

My son, tonight, when he had the opportunity to choose any show to watch tonight, requested “a wedding show.”

And right now I’m selecting lighting fixtures and color and it turns out that Adam and I totally agree on the former and not at all on the latter. This should be fun, except that I’m just not a stylish person and I find the process painful and stressful. I want to hire a designer to help us, only the first one we priced gave us a quote that was higher than our entire furniture budget. So we may be on our own here except for the kindness of friends with good taste.

But I’m still giving my Martha side a go. The kids and I tonight made homemade tortillas for dinner. Do you have any idea how easy it is to make homemade tortillas? It’s so ridiculously simple I can’t believe how much I wasted on these mondo packs of tortillas only to toss them out when the family ate 2 1/2 out of 12. We made six–and they’re all gone.

Apropos of nothing, I love Carol Kane. We don’t see enough Carol Kane. And if you know why I said that, then you’re watching what I’m watching, so you can’t judge me.

And continuing this randomness, I hate winter marathon training. I have dreams of the Goofy Challenge, but it’s another January marathon and I’m so sick of running on ice and snow. I can’t wait for this marathon to be over so I can be a lazy ass again.

Did I mention that I hate color? I do. I think our new house will be all black and white. Just so I don’t have to pick any colors.

Doodles turned down a concert at the library because he’s just not into music. And he’s grown out of our yearly SteveSongs concert, which is too bad–he’s going anyway. He hates babysitters even more than he hates music.

Bed. I need bed. I’m scared of bed, though. Because I dream in color. But all the wrong colors.

It’s been a fun, crazy week, with time in Doodles’ classroom, Adam’s office party, which–surprisingly–was really fun, a Hanukkah singalong at Pie’s school (preschool mosh pit! That girl loves to dance!), a night of cooking class, playdates, and all sorts of holiday prep goodness, including lots of baking, crafting (and I’ve become addicted to craft blogs lately–oh the ideas I have for next year!), and card writing. And then… then it all came to an end. Because…

…the snow has started. No quiet whispers into winter; it came in shouting its presence. Two days before the official beginning, we were pelted with snow. Fierce, fierce snow. Running on Friday morning, the sunrise was amazing, a fiery feast of reds in the sky, but then I remembered “Red skies at night, sailors delight; red skies at morning, sailor’s warning.” True enough in this case. I felt bad for Doodles who had a field trip canceled on Friday. Everyone had early releases in anticipation of the storm. I ran with my kids to the supermarket, along with the rest of the world and stocked up on supplies. Shabbat dinner for Friday. Snacks for Saturday. Milk for hot chocolate. Everything we needed. Everything. Oh, wait, except the toilet paper. I forgot the toilet paper. Oops!

That night the kids couldn’t wait to get out in the snow, so I bundled them up Friday evening to get their snow groove on. Nothing like the first trying on of winter boots to realize that they no longer fit. Doodles is a good size larger than his boot, but we managed to sausage his foot in. That night, we got about eight inches of snow, which would have been fine if that had been it.

Saturday morning I stupidly decided not to do my run, to save it for Sunday. Which meant, obviously, that Sunday was much worse. However, not knowing that, I had a lovely walk with Pie on the bike path so we could walk to Walgreens for toilet paper and new Color Wonder books. I did a bit of snow shoveling to unbury our cars. I got my hair done. Doodles got a new hockey hair cut so his hair no longer hurts his face. And then we stupidly decided–on a snowy day, the last weekend before Christmas–to brave L.L. Bean to get Doodles some new boots. What a freakin’ nightmare. And no boots in his size. So he’s going to have to suffer a bit longer. But overall it was a relaxing day, with all of us watching A Christmas Story (well, not completely relaxing–the bully in the movie terrified the kids). A lovely snow day.

And then there was today. One snow day too many. The snow started up again. And again. And again. Religious school canceled. Sleep didn’t happen last night as the toddler in the next apartment over is sick, and was up every hour from 3:15 till wake up time. I’ve got just over a month till I run Miami with my cousin, and I haven’t gotten enough mileage in. So in the sleet/snow/freezing rain, in the sub-freezing temperatures, a savage wind upon me, on the snow that feels like sand, except where it feels like ice, I managed to run 18 miles (it wasn’t quite uphill both ways, barefoot, but it was close). I’m cold. I’m beat. I’m tired. The kids want to go outside. I throw on a dry shirt. We head outside. Pie, in the hallway, sniffs her nose.

“Mommy, there’s something stinky in here!”

“I don’t smell anything, Pie.”

Pie puts on her biggest grin. “Mommy!” she says. “I think it’s you! You’re stinky!” Way to win points, Pie.

Tonight, the first night of Hanukkah, we went to friends’ for dinner. It was truly lovely, but I was so scared driving there and back. I was as tense as could be. Normally I’m the driver, but these days, it’s all Adam, because I refuse to drive in the snow. Trying to get out of our friends’ driveway at the end of the evening just about did me in, as our wheels spun and our car fishtailed. I just closed my eyes and Adam did a little digging and a little gunning and finally got us out. But, man, does that terrify me.

Part of me is really hoping school isn’t canceled tomorrow as it’s Pie’s last day before the winter break and I’m supposed to go into Doodles’s classroom to make latkes with them, but part of me is terrified to go out there–it’s supposed to turn to rain soon, which means it’ll be a sheet of ice out there–so part of me hopes it’s canceled so we can stay inside the entire day. Hey, the kids got some presents tonight–they’ve got stuff to play with. And I’m not above a day of PBS Sprout, if that’s what’s called for.

Meanwhile, as hard as it is to imagine, I’m supposed to go to our storage this week to pull out our summer clothes for our annual pilgrimage to Miami. I can’t fathom being ready. I can’t fathom getting our car out of here. I can’t fathom ever being out of this tiny apartment and back in our house (although we’re giving our 60 day notice on the apartment this week). I can’t fathom a place that isn’t buried in snow. I can’t fathom that we’ve been here since it was shorts weather. I can’t fathom. Period. I’m going to bury myself in bed. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up with a fresh dose of fathom.

The good news is, if I were a 55-year-old woman, I would have qualified for the Boston Marathon. The even better news is, I’m not a 55-year-old woman.

Seriously, I ran a kick ass (or kick tushie, as we say in my house) race today. I did go out a little too fast. I did have to make a pit stop in the bushes. But even so, I trashed my old PR of 4:25:07 with a 4:13:46 finish at the Baystate Marathon. True, my finish wasn’t so good in comparison with others (Baystate is considered by some to be the fastest course in the country, because it’s so flat and so many folks do qualify for Boston). Of course, this race had 2500 runners total, including the half, so I wasn’t competing against quite as many people (Miami had about 2500 in just the marathon and NYC had about 35,000, I believe).

The route is nice, but it’s a loop course, which isn’t my favorite. What a loop course means is… I got lapped by the winner when I was at mile 12. I saw the USATF truck and a couple of cops on motorcycles and at first couldn’t figure out why there were there… until this guy came blowing past me. The wind was pretty fierce out there–it never seemed to be at my back–and I’m petrified of bridges, and had to cross three of them, including a rather rickety one that shook with the cars.

But the leaves were gorgeously hued and the run was along the Merrimack River, which mad for some stunning views. I started at about a 9:45 pace and eased into a nice 9:35 pace for most of the run, but at mile 23, I started to hurt and at 24, my quads basically froze on me. I still kept running, but my place slowed so I eventually finished with a 9:41 pace. I had one of those finishes where I kept eying the medics, wondering if I needed them or not. But instead, I just walked and focused on not throwing up, which I succeeded at, so all was good.

And now? Now I’m done. Now I get sushi and a beer. Now I get a full week off of running and three weeks of easy running. And then? And then I start training for Miami. “Welcome to Miami. Buenvenidos a Miami.”

Oh yeah. Bring it on.