Day of firsts.

Who has two thumbs and ran a mile without stopping today?


If you know me (and you do) this is huge.  I’d call it epic but when ‘epic’ appears in a local newscast headline, it’s over.  But this is really big for me.

10 short months ago, I couldn’t run for 45 seconds.  I remember the first day on that treadmill, thinking that I might actually have a heart attack at 34 years old.  But I didn’t.  And today I ran.  Not fast and, in the grand scheme of things, not far.  It was only a mile and it took me 14 minutes and 35 seconds but I’m fairly certain that I have never ever run a mile.  Not even when we had to in junior high gym class.  I’m pretty sure I came in dead ass last there too.

But, no matter. I did it.  And now that I know that I can, I can try to run further or faster.  I’m going to go with further.  Even at a 4.3 (average speed), that felt like plenty fast thankyouverymuch.  I have learned that if I don’t use up all my energy “sprinting” then I have the stamina to go a whole 14 minutes and 35 seconds.

Another first happened today:

She lost it at school.  I guess it was hanging on by a thread and her teacher sent her to the nurse’s office.  The nurse encouraged her to pluck it out on her own and she did.  Ella claimed that it did not hurt and didn’t even really bleed.

Of course the best part of this story is her insistence on keeping the tooth.  She wrote a letter to the tooth fairy and left it under her pillow instead of the tooth.  (The tooth, I believe, is hidden in her jewelry box.)  I wish I could figure out my scanner because the letter is priceless.

To: Toth Fare,

I wod like u to lev my toth ulone. I wod stil like a coyn.

Love: Ella

I explained that the first one is probably okay but the tooth fairy is going to want something for her trouble the next time she has to come here.  The “tooth fairy” just about got busted trying to sneak the letter out from under her pillow and replace it with a gold dollar.  The gold dollars are often refered to as “pirate gold” in our house.  I wonder if she will make the connection.

I wish I could explain my neglect to my blog lately.  It would be easy to say that I’m in my cyclical funk because that is true.  I’m also making an attempt to be in bed early-ish although I am rarely asleep before midnight because I’ve found my reading love again.  I think now that I can lounge in my own bed without someone else in it, I enjoy reading again.  I don’t even know that that’s the issue. 

Here it is, coming up on 3 years since Stephen died (and 7 since Will died) and I am writing the same things.  I have the same feelings of parental inadequacy and guilt.  I have the same insecurities about being a single woman in her mid-thirities (with a weight problem, two small children, a basket of yarn crafts and (most recently) a cat…can I be more of a stereotype?) that I had a year ago.  Two years ago. 

I know that when I read blogs, I expect new content when I check in on them.  The most successful blogs are ones that provide something new.  And I think, on some level, that if I just keep saying the same things over and over…what’s the point?

And maybe it’s just me.

Because there is a part of me, smaller but still very much present, that still can’t believe  he’s gone.

How many times do I get to say that before somebody, somewhere says “yeah, yeah…you’ve been crying about that for years.”  And they probably already have.  Not that I should care.  And mostly I don’t.  But I’m just a little bit sick of my own self whining about it.

I should just go back to writing about the everyday crap even though every day is pretty much like every other day around here.  Some days just require a xanax.  Or a midnight batch of cookie dough.

But three years later?  I’m really just tired of fighting it.

Excuses and A-holes.

This morning was AFC (Advanced Fat Camp).  I don’t know how well I’m going to like the morning class.  Sure, it works better with my schedule but I feel like I need the late afternoon to stave off the crazy angries.  And the stress eating.  Which, it turns out, is about all I eat.  I resolve to work on it.

Today was slated for our 30 minute treadmill test.  Get on the treadmill.  Go for 30 minutes.  Record distance.  The speed is ultimately up to the individual.  This is the 7th such test I have done.  My best is 2.04 miles.  My worst was 1.64.  Today was 1.84.  I’m nothing if not consistent.  And not awful considering I’ve had about 2 months off. 

We also weighed in and got measured.  Waist is the same.  Hips the same.  Didn’t check thighs but it’s probably the same.  Weight is up 3 pounds.  Figures.

As she is measuring my waist, I say This ought to be interesting.  I’m totally bloated.

(Please don’t make me say why.)

Molly says “That’s an excuse.  Excuses are like assholes.  Know why?”

Everybody has one?

“Nobody wants to hear about it.”

Cracked me up.  Seriously.  Big slobbery girl-crush kisses to my trainer.  This?  Is why I keep going back.  She knows me well.

The thing is that I’m full of excuses.  I can rationalize myself into (or out of) anything.  I can do it to you too.  I am the great enabler. 

I’ve been dealt a shitty life so I don’t have to be nice.

My kids are both sick so I shouldn’t have to go and volunteer.

I’ve had a tough day and cookies would make be feel better.

I worked hard.  I deserve that new outfit/gadget/smelly lotion.

See?  This one knows me.  Or maybe she was just frustrated by the extra whining that comes during the first week of any new class.

Also, in the Land of the Blogs, one’s asshole is not off-limits.  It is on this blog but not on others.  So somebody wants to hear about it.