Gratitude

We've had a neighborhood boy turning up on our doorstep every day after school. The kids are barely off the bus and in the door when David comes knocking.

I have posted before about the minor annoyance that friends can sometimes bring to our family dynamic. How other parents sometimes will dump their kid at your house, leaving you to provide entertainment. And how the new playmate sometimes disrupts the otherwise cohesive sibling playtime.

Well, David is no such kid.

David is a shy, skinny, blond-haired little boy. He does not rifle my pantry in search of treats. When my boys are begging him to play video games or watch TV, he is instead suggesting Legos and pretend play. He does not play with only one of my children at a time, but instead includes all three - even the Princess. (And I'll admit it, there are a lot of days that EVEN I don't want to be bossed around by the Princess). But David takes it all in with a smile. Nobody is odd-man-out when David comes to play.

And my kids just ADORE him. They beg to have him stay for dinner. They hate when it's time for him to go home. They would have him move in permanently, I'm sure. And with his polite manners and quiet demeanor, I just might consider taking him.

I've attributed his enjoyment of our family to the fact that his only sibling is a 15-year-old sister, who is probably not very interested in Legos and scooters. I've thought that my boys and their rambunctious nature must be the big draw for David. And that might be all it is.

But tonight, we learned a little more about our friend David. He was staying for dinner. Asking politely for seconds, waiting his turn, and complimenting me on my fine cooking skills (which let's be honest, very few people in this house ever do). Chase happened to ask him what time his Mom and Dad get home from work every day. David said his Mom gets home at five and his Dad? Well, his Dad passed away.

I could barely keep back the tears as we gently told him how sorry we were.

Cancer. About a year ago is all.

And suddenly, this shy, sweet little boy seemed so much older for his age. He's experienced more than a ten-year-old boy ever should. No child should know the heartache of mortality. He lives every day knowing just how fragile life is. How someone you love can be taken from you, whether you like it or not. My heart just ached for this little boy and what his family has been through.

Later, as I was tucking McKay in bed, he had tears in his eyes as he told me he could not imagine losing his Dad. You know what, Buddy? I can hardly imagine it either.

And so today, we will hug our Dad just a little bit tighter.

And tomorrow, we'll play with David, just like we do every day. Only this time, we'll understand maybe why he's so shy. And we'll not mind that he knocks right after the bus passes. Because his house is probably too quiet.

And ours is everything but.

Our little runner

On your marks, get set...

Go!

And go they did. On Saturday, McKay competed against 250 boys his age in a one-mile run. Only the first 40 finishers received medals.

He was number 160.

He was a little disappointed, but I think he did pretty great. He ran his little heart out, had a fun time, and did something he's never done before.

Good job, kid. You did us all proud.

It's the Eye of the Tiger (only without the raw eggs)

Meet the running coaches, clipboards in hand. They SEEM very intent in their work:
The coaches have a most serious training regimen; including running, "wates" [weights], and working hard. Notice working hard has not been checked off yet. Breaking a sweat and coughing up a lung don't count as hard work around here.

Now who is our fine, stellar athlete, you ask? Why, it's none other than McKay. Gearing up for his elementary school cross country meet. He has to run a mile - and be in the top 40 to win a medal (which his competitive nature is counting on). His pace today was a 9-minute mile.

The big race is tomorrow. Wish my little guy good luck.

P.S. Do not be fooled by the intensity of our coaching staff. These kids will do ANYTHING for a little afternoon of Sponge Bob on the telly.

Even exercise.

Or pretend to coach.

Will work for long pants and sweaters

Fall is here. There's just no denying it any longer. Yes, Summer had a good run - one that lasted well into the middle of October. Two days ago it was 85 degrees. Right now? About 49.

Unfortunately, Fall has caught me a little by surprise. It shouldn't have, but it did.

When we moved from Boston to San Diego a year and a half ago, I all-too-cheerfully filled our trash can with everything warm - sweaters, coats, boots, mittens, snowsuits, and long pants. Gone forever was winter from my life. Winter and I? We were breaking up. Irreconcilable differences, in the end. Gone would be the bitter wind chills and Nor'Easters. Gone, too, the annoying snowstorms that always come in May. Instead, winter was going to be replaced by warm, glorious San Diego sunshine. Sunshine. My new boyfriend. The one that I was going to be having an affair with at the beach every day for the rest of my life (until I got skin cancer and died, that is).

Well.

Hello, Missouri. And like the abusive boyfriend I just can't stay away from, Winter and I are back together again.

So now the mornings are chilly, the afternoons brisk, and the nights freezing. Our wardrobes have come up severely delinquent, and it is especially evident in the children.

So bad, in fact, that Chase walked out of the house this morning in an outfit similar to this:


McKay is still living in denial - he went out the door in shorts and a hoodie. And I felt sorry for him, I did, as I watched him hop up and down at the bus stop, while I was all warm and cozy inside the house.

He thinks he's too cool for the flood pants that his brother so happily wears. Well, who's cool and who's cold, mister?

So it is with a heavy heart today that I'll get online and start shopping for the blasted long pants, the winter coats, boots, mittens, and hats for the children. Blech. I'm just not feeling it. I'd rather be shopping instead for some of these to adorn my own closet:
But I can't wilfully subject the children to ridicule, so new clothes for them it will be. Oh the joy.

Finishing what they started

Well, I obviously didn't spend my weekend getting blisters, chugging Gatorade, sweating profusely, and cursing everyone who passed me (as I did on a Saturday back in 2004). I bowed out of my little Marathon, and haven't regretted it since. But while I was busy haggling for fake purses on the streets of Midtown, my brothers were running their hearts out. For Matt, (pictured left) this was his virgin race. Dan (pictured right), ran with me in 2004. [The guy in the middle is my cousin's husband, Joe. This is like his 7th marathon or something crazy awesome like that.] Those two brothers of mine finished with a time of 4 hours and 25 minutes, and having done a race myself once, I think that is pretty fantastic.

And so because I kind of like them, and in honor of their victory, here is my top ten list of reasons why I think they deserve this big success:

1. Because they chose to do something hard, put their minds to it, and did what they set out to do.
2. Because they both have three young kids and work hard to be good Dads.
3. Because when we were little, my older brother and I tied Daniel to a post in the basement and left him there crying.
4. Because when we were little, Daniel and I wrapped Matt up tightly in blankets and left him outside in the snow crying. [What is it about me and tying people up in my youth? I really have outgrown that one.]
5. Because I once made fun of Daniel's red hair and Matt's need for glasses.
6. Because they are good husbands to their wives.
7. Because their kids were all cheering at the finish line wearing t-shirts that said, "Run, Daddy, Run."
8. Because running a marathon is really, really hard.
9. Because they didn't quit [unlike someone else I know, ahem]. They trained through the heat of the summer, while working full-time jobs, serving in the church, and raising families.
10. And finally, because I love them.

Well done, you two.

There's no place like home

I'm back home after a fantastic weekend with my peeps. We have made this our little tradition; heading into the city without our husbands and kids for some girl time. Nobody leaves NYC without a Broadway show, loads of good food, fake purse shopping, and late night hilarity (that's when the REAL Stie comes out. If you haven't met her, you're missing out. She's much more fun than Daytime Stie).

It was great to reconnect - some of us haven't been together in three years, which was way too long. Adding to the fun was my adorable sister-in-law, Gabi, coming to meet us on Saturday for a show (although we would have kept you all weekend if Brad would have spared you, Gab). We saw The Drowsy Chaperone (HIGHLY recommend it, if it comes to your city. So, so cute). It was just the old fashioned Broadway that I love. Tap dancing, zany characters, soaring voices, and a wedding or two thrown in for kicks. It was a musical as they are meant to be done. We all absolutely loved it. The weekend was just what I have been needing. [Jackie, Cindy, and Bridget - you were sorely missed. We will not accept your excuses next time, trust me.]

We've all done NY a time or two, so this was merely a weekend spent eating, laughing, and catching up. We stayed in Times Square and shared our hotel with about a bazillion ladies in town for the breast cancer walk, all sporting large, pink cowboy hats. We walked through Central Park. We had a luxurious Sunday brunch at the top of the Marriott Marquee (for which my pocketbook has not yet recovered). It was a perfect weekend.

But the biggest adventure for me was the journey home. It seems I have had too long of a lucky streak in the travel department and was overdue for some misfortune and near-misses.

Let's just say this about the experience:

One cancelled flight + one flight re-booked on another airline = Racing to TWO different terminals to find the right gate.

Two different terminals + 1 suitcase + 1 purse = TWO long waits in security lines (AGAIN).

One cancelled flight + one stupid ticket counter person = Second leg of journey cancelled for you. [Oh, how nice. I always wanted to move to Washington, D.C. without my family. No, I don't need to get home, you IDIOT!]

One stupidly cancelled flight + no record of previous flight plans = One ANGRY, anxious, yelling Me.

Ten minutes of yelling, pleading, and explaining + shortened layover time [due to the First Lady flying into LaGuardia and causing the runway to be unusable until secured (yeah, Annie, my lone celebrity sighting: I saw her plane and security detail. Woo hoo.)] = Me RUNNING through Reagan Airport to catch my second plane, practically shoving people out of the way as I go.

One minute of begging to get to the front of security line (which I am now going through for the THIRD time in this stupid airport) + sprinting to my gate to catch a flight that was due to leave any second = Sweaty, sobbing heap of a mess. Me.

And nothing says WELCOME HOME, MOM! like a five-year-old throwing up all over the [yes, carpeted] stairs at two-thirty in the morning. WHY, WHY, WHYYYY couldn't she have done that on The Husband's watch? WHY? Oh, no. She saved that little ditty for my cleaning pleasure. I think it's her own private way of punishing me for leaving her alone with the men in this house and having some fun without her.

I think I need another vacation. Now.