ARggh!

Okay.

 So I have a child who doesn't hate to read, but she's not as addicted to the printed word as I am.

She is, however, REALLY PICKY about what she wants to read.

Enter the AR (Accelerated Reader) program.

If you aren't familiar with the AR program, here's a brief synopsis off of their EIGHT PAGE parent guide that pretty much says it all--
AR is a computer program that helps teachers and librarians manage and monitor children’s independent reading practice. 

So the way this works is, my kid took some test to determine the AR level of books she is capable of reading. She has to choose books at that level, and then take tests over them.  The longer or harder the book, the more points the kid gets for passing the tests.

Let me interject here.  Teachers and schools LOVE AR.  Hey.  I'm a teacher.  I can understand why.  The computer and the child does all of the work.  All a teacher has to do is assign a certain number of AR points to be earned by a certain date and make it part of the kid's grade.  Easy.  Peasy.  Kids are reading. At their level.  Reading comprehension is getting checked (sort of).  Teacher is free to do other things.  Like teach Common Core (don't EVEN get me started).

Back to my very picky reader.

We were in Costco yesterday.  (This always means a trip down the book aisle.  Even if I was just there the day before.)  And my daughter found a book she wanted to read.

I'm not proud of what happened next.

Instead of telling her how excited I was that she found a book she was looking forward to enjoying, I pulled out my phone and plugged the title into the AR bookfinder.  Yep.  I suck.

Well, so does AR, because apparently the book she was so interested in reading isn't AR approved.

And it gets worse.  I hesitated.  Hesitated, Dear Reader.  Apparently she needs 23 or something AR points by Halloween.  She has 10.  I considered not buying her a book she wants to read, because there are books that she NEEDS to read so she can get points for her GRADE.

She's eleven.  Eleven.

I totally get a book list in Jr. High.  Or High School.  We should not graduate students who haven't been exposed to Shakespeare, or Mark Twain, or Ancient Greek epic poetry.

I even understand book lists for "Accelerated Readers."

My older son LOVED AR, by the way.  But he was a voracious reader anyway.  He tests well.  And there was a contest at school.  He's a wee bit competitive.  AND his teacher gave him two-liters of Mountain Dew for getting AR points.  (Yeah.  Don't get me started on that one, either.)

My daughter is an average reader right now.  This is okay with me. She reads on grade level.  She occasionally picks up a book and reads for pleasure.  But right now, it's not her #1 favorite thing to do.  I firmly believe that if we continue to encourage reading and find ways to be delighted by books, she will eventually catch the reading bug.

Luckily, I got my head back in the game.  I put the book in the cart.  I put my worry about my daughter's grade in Language Arts aside.  And I reminded myself that my approach is going to go much further toward creating a lifelong love of reading than AR EVER can.

Stupid AR.

Author's note:  BOTH of my kids told me point blank that they regularly take tests over books they read years ago, or that we listened to on tape, or that I read to them.

Fabulous.

I guess I need to ramp up the lessons on honesty and integrity while promoting a lifetime love of reading.





 

On Removing Band-Aids

I've never understood the expression, "Rip it off like a Band-Aid."

Well, that's not really true. I understand the theory behind it. Supposedly it hurts your skin less if you just grab one side of that thing and yank hard and fast.

But that's not how I roll. I have never. ever. ripped off Band-Aids.

My process for removing a Band-Aid involves thinking about it for awhile. Deciding if the grayish-black adhesive that always builds up around the edge is now so disgusting that people are going to start looking at me funny. When I decide it is indeed time, I wedge my fingernail underneath the edge of it and S-L-O-W-L-Y pull. And by slowly, I mean that this process can take ten minutes or more for a normal-sized bandage. Ten minutes of pain...followed by relief...followed by pain...followed by relief...wash. rinse. repeat.


Yep. Same thing with pools and the like. I always get in inch by tiny inch. One toe at a time. It's one of the many reasons I never attempted swim team. I was never gonna be able to dive off of those blocks into the water. I just can't do it. Drives my kids crazy. By the time I'm completely wet, they're long done and ready to do something else.

I approach all difficult things in my life this way.

People think I'm crazy. They're not wrong.

So it's a little bit understandable that I would approach a life-changing move the selfsame way.

~Find out about it in November.

~Feel the need to let kids finish the school year. Buys time until May.

~Decide the kids need one last summer with their friends to finish baseball. Buys time until July.

~Take advantage of brother getting married and not having people in a new place to watch kids. Buy some more time until the end of August.

~Leave all of our stuff in our house in the Midwest until we can close on a house in our new place. Buys a flight back to the home I love for one more visit.

And just like pulling off a Band-Aid, all of these stages have had great pain, followed by relief and ease, joy and laughter, followed by pain and tears and breaking hearts.

So as I sit here in this airport, ready to board a flight that will take me the last leg of this very long moving journey, I realize that I have finally done it. I no longer have any type of residence in Kansas. Our belongings are on a huge truck, en route to a new, permanent home. The band-aid is off. I'm completely immersed in the water, from toe to head.

The emotional exhaustion is huge.

So huge that I feel numb.

And I am sure that my friends and family were looking on during this whole process and thinking, "Oh, For.The.Love!! Just do it already!! Move! Like ripping off a Band-Aid."

Exactly. Just like ripping off a Band-Aid.

Things I Love About Living Here

I have this friend, Renee. Renee and I met through the virtual school where I worked. Renee's daughter is one of my former students.

Several things about Renee~
1. She's amazing. Truly. Amazing.

2. She's living a semi-parallel life to mine.
When I say "semi-parallel," I mean she's also relocating to California after living in the Midwest for a number of years. But she's in the major league where this is concerned and I'm still on a farm team. Because...

Renee is also living apart from her husband. She has three kids. But her OLDEST is the same age as my YOUNGEST. Whereas I am a veteran home schooling mom (meaning I've served in that war. A long time ago.), Renee is active-duty. She is also packing up her own house, trying to get it sold, and is mommy and daddy for three young children--all while teaching three kids full-time.

3. Renee is not a complainer. She's one of the most positive people I know.

Renee does things like make "Top 10 Great Things About Moving to California" lists.

4. When I grow up, I want to be like Renee.

True Confession time--

I. Hate. It. Here. With a white-hot passion.

Everything is complicated here. Absolutely everything.

From taking the kids to school in the morning, to ridding the apartment of roaches, to trying to get C in the correct math class. It's all complicated. Oh, and expensive.

But none of that stuff is as complicated as trying to purchase real-estate in Southern California. Remember how I said that I had hopefully gotten the last You Have So Got To Be Kidding Me With This correspondence about the house we're trying to buy?

Yeah. I jinxed it. We hadn't. We probably still haven't.

At this point, I hope we own this home by the time J starts high school.

I have absolutely no idea why so many people want to live here. This place gets 55 electoral votes. 55! How is that even possible?

It can't be the weather. It was 103 here today.

But I digress.

I've been thinking a lot about my friend, Renee's list.

And I decided that I should start a list of my own. Things I love about living here that I wouldn't have back in Kansas.

Maybe it will help if I can focus on the positive.

And I'm going to put a reminder on my calendar to come back to this list every so often to add to it. If there's anything to add.

So here goes:

Things I Love About Living Here

1. Trader Joe's.
I love that there is a Trader Joe's here. Two minutes from where we live. And there's always a parking spot available.

That's it. That's seriously all I've got. But at least it's a start.



Author's Note:
Yes. I am also glad that our family is "sort of" together again. (We miss you, Mik!) But let's be honest here. Really. If I had dug in my heels and decided I wasn't leaving Kansas, we'd still be living there. All of us.

The best line in the movie, "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" is

"The man may be the head of the family, but the woman is the neck."

Perfectly Paleo

~Disclaimer~

I'm kind of grumpy today. So if this is more acrid than normal, I apologize.

So I thought this move to California would be a good time to turn over a new leaf. I decided I would give organization and forethought and planning ahead a try-on for size and see how I like the way they fit.

So far, they look great on the rack and on other people. On me...not so much.

I did things like pre-emptively get athletic clearances filled out on my kids in Kansas with our doctors. Somewhere between having it in the apartment and getting it to the ASB (I have no idea what in the world ASB is or what it stands for, but that's where it has to go) office at N's school, the form has disappeared. This form has to be in a coach's hot little hands Saturday morning for baseball tryouts. Baseball is what this kid is putting all of his hope on for a successful life here.

This brings us to this thing called Urgent Care. Where I pay $40, wait over 2 hours, and sign my name, give my address, and my date of birth on no less than 8 pieces of paper. Including the paper that I had to sign to say that I had paid my balance in full. Seriously??? Because the signed credit card statement wasn't enough?? So that my son can spend five minutes back in a room with heaven knows who walking in a straight line, touching his toes, getting asked if he has headaches or heart problems, and then gets told to "have a good season and don't get hurt." Oh. And they won't bill insurance.

And then there was the other evening. :o)

I attempted a lovely, Paleo dinner of meatloaf and bacon-n-brussels sprouts.

Cooking is something that I am also trying to do on a regular basis. I've found that the smell of dinner decreases the chance of Better Half glancing pointedly around the apartment and saying casually, "So...what did you do all day today?" And really. It's only fair. I'm not working. You'd think I could at least handle dinner.

So dinner is nicely cooking. There are about 15 minutes left on the timer, and I have to go pick J up from dance.

So I tell Better Half:

"Dinner will be ready in 15. I know that you guys have to leave. Just stick it back in the oven after you eat. J and I will be right home and we'll eat then." We have no microwave to reheat food.

I pick up J. And as I'm pulling up to the apartment, I get that feeling in the pit of my stomach. The one you get when you realize things are gonna go terribly wrong. I had given C my apartment key earlier in the afternoon and forgot to get it back.

Better half is with the boys on his way to C's baseball practice--20 minutes away. I'm locked out of my apartment and dinner is still in the oven. Which is still set at 350 degress.

See why organization doesn't look so hot on me?? If I hadn't come up with a dinner plan, we could've just had In-N-Out Burger. Better Half wouldn't have had to race home. J and I wouldn't have been shaking the living room window screens to see if we could remove them when the neighbors walked by. They wouldn't have had to say, "I sure hope you guys live in that place." And we wouldn't have worried that every beep we heard was the smoke detector in our apartment.

Oh, and it was 100 different kinds of hot and humid outside.

So better half finally gets home. He lets us into the apartment and I pull out dinner. The meatloaf is just a little bit crispy on the outside. Not bad.

But the bacon and Brussels sprouts, well...

J took one look at it and said, "Ugh! It looks like dead roaches!! Is THAT what you've been doing with all of the roaches, Mom??"

I really don't see the problem. I'm gonna guess roaches are Paleo.

Maybe we'll try "eating local" on for size as well.:o)

In other news--My friend Jaime (who, incidentally, I met on my VERY FIRST DAY of KINDERGARTEN) is a GENIUS!!!  It's not exactly Princess Kate, but it certainly isn't Peg Bundy, either:

And my friend, Jennifer, is also a genius.  Because the first kid to open a fresh, sassy mouth or who says something hateful to a sibling on a school morning is getting me...walking the offender up to the school building with my head full of these:

A Little Bit of This...A Little Bit of That

~The Weekend~
I adore three-day weekends. It's nice to know that I have reinforcements in the form of "Daddy" for three entire days. There is something delicious about Sunday evenings. I think it's when you start to gear up for a typical Monday and then get the delightful surprise reminder that you have one more "weekend day" left.

We had a really nice three-day weekend. In reverse order--
Yesterday we took the kids to the beach. J has been DYING to go since we got here. I'm a huge fan as the kids and Better Half are all happy to mess around in the freezing cold Pacific and I am happy to lie on a blanket, read, and nap. We had a great time. Saw a seal. In the wild. And a pelican. Got a fantastic parking spot. Experienced no traffic issues. It really was magical. Except for the sand. Sand is glorious on a beach. Not so much anywhere else. Despite our best efforts I now have sand all over my car, my clothes, and my apartment. We went to the beach with Better Half over spring break. He says he was STILL cleaning up sand when he moved out of it three weeks ago. For. The. Love.

If you removed the mountain backdrop behind the field, our Sunday looked identical to every Sunday we've spent in Kansas for the past 6 years in the summer. Baseball. But we can cross "find the kid a baseball team" off of the list of things to get done for C. Lesson learned on Sunday--Rednecks are everywhere. Even in Southern California.

On Saturday some of our dear friends (who happen to live in California) drove two hours to come see us in our tiny, temporary apartment. More on the apartment later. It was wicked hot and sticky. Basically just like Kansas. We took all the kids to the pool, tried to feed everyone out of Better Half's dorm-sized refrigerator (I am so not making this up) and off of his six dinner plates. Then we all sat around the kitchen and tried to think of things to do. Entertainment pickings are slim. A deck of cards and a game called "Pass the Pigs" is about all I can offer until the rest of our stuff gets here. Oh, that, and a whole lot of verbal teenaged sibling sparring. Anyway...it sure was nice of Andy and Amanda to schlepp their kids two hours to hang out with us in our roach-infested apartment. I'm sure they're super anxious to do it again real soon. Which leads me to...

~Housing~
Yes. There are roaches in my apartment. When your husband is able to locate a "month-to-month" rental in a city where no one does "month-to-month" rentals, you have to understand that you get what you pay for. When we procure the therapist for J, I'm sure he/she is gonna want to spend significant time on the "I opened the cabinet to get a bowl for cereal and a roach fell on my head" incident. I don't want the trauma of that one coming back to haunt her in adulthood.

This address should be very temporary. As in "we should be outta here by the end of the week" temporary. I am so hoping that we have gotten our last You. Have. Seriously. Got. To. Be. KIDDING. Me. About. This. text/email/phone call from the Realtor/Lender/Escrow company with one more thing to do/hold-up/potential disaster that is going to cost us the house we are trying to buy and all of our earnest money.

When we first got here and I saw the apartment, I had a very "zen" attitude about closing on the house. If it worked out, great. If not, there'd be another one and we'd be fine to live here for awhile. Once I saw the first roach, I lost my "zen" space. I think it went back to Kansas.

~California~
You have to have a "food handling license" to work at any restaurant in California. It sounds like it's a certificate that states that you understand that handwashing prevents disease and you should use gloves and not sneeze or cough or pick your nose while making my hamburger. This is amusing and terrifying to me on so many levels. I am also interested in how much one must pay to obtain such a credential.

I'm not sure which "California Girls" Katy Perry is singing about, but she's sure not singing about the ones who live in this town. J's public elementary school dress code states that all shorts must hit below the mid-thigh. No makeup may be worn. All hairstyles must be of natural color and shape. "Daisy Dukes and bikinis on top" don't fly here. Believe me. I'm so down with kicking it old-school. None of this is a problem for me at all. It's just not at all what I expected. It doesn't jive with my stereotype of this place.

Neither is the policy for the high school baseball team that all hair must be cut above the ears and off the neck.

Or the fact that there are technically school busses here, but no one uses them. Everyone drives their kids. That doesn't seem very environmentally friendly to me. Just saying.

N on California--"This is a great place to be during the weekend. The week? Notsomuch."

~Exercise and Health~
I have been self-medicating with food for the past week-and-a-half. Don't judge. It's really easy to do when you have a roach-infested kitchen. You pretty much want to be out. And eat out. And eat badly. And often.

So I have this friend, Jennifer, who, several years ago, had this blog titled, "Exercise is a Reasonable Substitute for Love." This amazing lady, while dealing with some pretty life-changing personal stuff, used exercise and healthy living as a means of coping with the crazy. In the process of all of this, she found love and had to start calling her blog something else. :o) Now she never posts because she's wicked busy going back to school, running her own business, parenting her kids, and doing lots and lots of healthy and wicked-cool exercisey things like running multiple marathons every year.

I'm going to steal a page out of her book and try an experiment. I'm going to see if "Exercise is a Reasonable Substitute for Friends." :o)

In that vein, I went to a CrossFit gym today. It was completely un-air conditioned. Just like mine back in Kansas. I felt right at home.

I don't want to go as far as to say that I've missed things like rope burns on my legs, but the constant burning pain above my right ankle is reminding me even as I sit that I accomplished something good for my body today.

And it is also a constant reminder to quit going to class without first checking out the WOD. Forthelove. Today was definitely a knee sock day.

Except that my knee socks are still in Kansas...

Hair Affair

Before moving out here, I tried to be uncharacteristicallly proactive and organized.  We visited the doctor.  We got updated eye exams.  At the advice of my dear friend, I got copies of medical records. Yada. Yada.

The thing I failed to do was get my hair cut one last time.

I usually get my hair cut every 8 weeks or so.  But this has been a crazy summer, folks.  So with the exception of a couple of whacks at my shaggy bangs when I just couldn't stand it any longer, guided by a perky sixteen-year old with too much eye makeup on a youtube video, I haven't had my hair cut since before spring break.  I am not even kidding about this.

Fortunately, it is finally long enough for a decent "messy bun."

Anyway...

We arrived here on a Thursday.  By Friday, my hair was an emergency.  So I Googled hair places.

Can I just say that I love Google?

It never seems to have a problem with all of the words I use.  So when I Googled "Absolute best place for a woman to get her hair cut in _____________ CA," It didn't freak out or tell me I've used too many characters.  It just pulled up like six places with really good "Yelp" ratings.

I'm not really sure what "Yelp" is, but having "Yelp" rate you well is a good thing out here.

I called the first place on the list.

Yes.  They could get me in for a haircut.  Tomorrow.  With a girl named Aimee.  I loved this place already.

Aimee has magic hands.

A quick word about magic hands:  If you have ever--1. Gotten a hideous haircut.  2.  Attempted to hack at your hair yourself, thinking, "This can't be that big of a deal.  I can't believe you have to go to school and get a license for this" and then had to wear a hat or a scarf for three weeks. 3.  Had a preschool child practice his/her newfound cutting skills on his/her own locks or that of his/her siblings--you understand the importance of a hairstylist with magic hands.

This sweet girl took my hair...that hadn't been cut professionally in over SIX MONTHS and made my  hair (Not my face.  Unfortunately, someone would have to have an M.D. to fix that) look like this:

Except that I have bangs.

And all she used to accomplish this feat was a round brush.  And some expensive serum stuff that I'm not ever gonna purchase in this lifetime, so the trick had to be the round brush, right?

I watched Aimee like a hawk as she worked on my hair.  And she lured me into that very dangerous place.  The one where you think, "THAT doesn't look SO hard.  I can do THAT."

And I fell for it.  I went out and bought a round brush.  Brought it home.  And pretended to be Aimee with the magic hands.

It was a sight for America's Funniest Home Videos.  My hair was getting caught in the brush.  I was smacking myself in the face, ear, elbow (yes, elbow!) with not only the brush, but also the hairdryer.  When I was finished, I was red-faced and dripping with sweat and my hair looked just like this:

So I'm giving up.  I've put the round brush in the pile of things to take to Goodwill.  I bought a brand new package of hair elastics and bobby pins.  I will proactively schedule hair appointments on days where I have to take family photos, driver's license pictures, go out for dinner for my anniversary.  That sort of thing.

Otherwise, I'll be the girl sporting the messy bun.

I'm Sorry

Dear Parent Who Arrives 20-30 Minutes Early to Pick Up Your Kid from School Every Day,

I used to occasionally see you parked outside of your child's school building.

Mind you, I always glimpsed you when I was dashing around, trying to get that one last thing done before I had to grab my brood. I never encountered you because I was also that early. Ever.

Occasionally, I would envy your fantastic parking spot. Your impeccable organization that made it possible for this to be a regular occurrence for you--not just something that happened by random accident on the Monday after "fall back" Sunday because you forgot to change your car clock.

But mostly I judged you. I wondered why you didn't have anything better to do with your time. I thought maybe you needed to get a job. Volunteer. Cut the apron strings. Let Precious Junior-kins walk (gasp!!) a few car-lengths or maybe even a block to your car.

Well, I owe you the most sincere apology.

Now I am you.

Here I sit, 30 minutes before school dismisses, in front of my son's school. Parked underneath the ONLY shade tree on the street.

I have no idea what your reasons are for doing it this way, but I can tell you mine:

1. The student body of this school is BIG. Close to 2,000. That's a LOT of parents in a lot of cars on streets that aren't very big. So I can either arrive early, or get a "spot" that's no closer than my driveway (a good mile from the school).

2. It's been HOT here. Like triple digits, hot. And as cool as palm trees are, that tall skinny trunk and tiny puff of leaves at the top doesn't offer a whole lot of shade. I've made it my goal to get the shade spot. Yeah. I'm a wuss. But the best part of this place is supposed to be the weather. And so far it feels exactly like Kansas in August. California, you disappoint.

3. As soon as I drop my kids off for school in the morning, I am counting the hours until I can pick them up. I miss them. I worry about them. I want to be with them. I can't wait to see them. It truly is the best part of my day, and I want it to start as soon as is humanly possible.

Even if that means being "that mom," sitting in my "regular" spot at 1:45 every afternoon, reading a book, being pitied and judged by everyone else who has a life here.

Yes. I probably need to get a job. Volunteer. Cut the apron strings. But not today. Probably not by next Friday.

And when I see you in your regular spot doing the same thing, I'll smile and wave.

Solidarity, Sister!!

Sincerely,
Me

"Toto, I've a Feeling We're Not in Kansas Anymore"

Oh, come on.

You knew it was coming, right?

The title??

Kansas girl moves to California??? So what if it's cliche. I have a hard time coming up with blog titles. Don't judge.

So here are just a few things that I'm learning about California:

That school on Beverly Hills 90210? Yeah. They all really do look like that out here. Even the elementary school's "lunch room" is a patio of tables set up outside.
( I tried to explain to my youngest daughter this is not only because of the mild weather, but also because it HARDLY. EVER. RAINS. She's still not convinced. :o( )

There is lots of important driving information not only on street signs, but also on the streets themselves. Stuff like "keep intersection clear," and speed limits and the like. Right on the paved road. This seems like an okay practice to me (the whole, "keep your eyes on the road" thing), except for during bumper-to-bumper traffic, when one can't even see the paved road. Then you could miss some important stuff.

Speaking of driving...Two people in a vehicle is considered a car pool for the purposes of accessing the car pool lane on the freeway and prime parking spots. Two seems like a low number to me.

It's possible to exist fairly comfortably in a dwelling that only has a window unit air conditioner.

And on that note...extremely high humidity gets the little red "severe weather alert" red exclamation mark on weather.com out here. We've had three of those days so far and I've yet to exit my house and immediately find myself dripping with sweat. These people have no idea what extremely high humidity is. Just saying.

Gasoline should be purchased with cash. Always. It was $3.65/gallon at the gas station with cash and $4.10?!?!?! for debit/credit card transactions. Yikes!!

No talking on cell phones while driving. Unless using a hands-free device. My kids reminded me of this yesterday when I, out of habit, grabbed my phone to call Better Half while driving down the road.

I've yet to see a squirrel, but the little lizards that dart across the sidewalks are kind of cute. All bets are off if I ever find one in my house, however.

I guess I'm gonna want to have an "earthquake" kit and I'll need to "earthquake proof" my house. I'll add that to the growing list of things I need to Google.

Food isn't that much more expensive out here. Neither is gas (if you pay with cash). Housing. Is. Kids' activities. Are. One of the kids had a form in his registration packet to sign up for an after school debate club. The cost was $350! I am not kidding about this. I didn't protest when he said he didn't want to do it.

There are bugs out here. I have not seen any mosquitoes, but there are plenty of other kinds of bugs. This is a big disappointment to me.

The people we have met have been very nice. And yet I feel a lot like Dorothy in "The Wizard of Oz." All she wants are her people back "home."


"This was a real, a truly live place. And I remembered that some of it wasn't very nice, but most of it was beautiful. But just the same, all I kept saying to everybody was, 'I want to go home.' "
~Dorothy

Because there really is "no place like home." And I have a feeling that Kansas is going to be "home" to this girl for a long time.

Why Not

Last week I went to this bookstore with my mom.

And I bought a book (Notice the use of the article adjective "a." This fact alone is blog-worthy. Usually that sentence has adjectives like "some," "several," "too many.").

The book is called "Juicy Pens Thirsty Paper: Gifting the World with Your Words and Stories and Creating the Time and Energy to Actually Do It."

Two things drew me to this book to the point that it actually came home with me instead of an image of it merely occupying space in the camera roll on my phone.

The first thing about it was its beauty--bright and colorful. It reminded me of these big desk calendars that my roommate in college used to use to keep track of her classes, assignments, and schedules. I think she used those skinny Crayola markers and everything was color-coded in her impeccable handwriting. I tried to duplicate this practice many times. Mine were never as pretty as hers.

The second thing that drew me to it was the phrase, "Gifting the world with your words and stories." For those of you who know me, that sentence needs no further explanation. For those of you who don't, suffice it to say that I like words. And stories. :o)

So toward the middle of this book is a section called, "Games, Stories, and Ways to get Your Juicy Pen Moving Like Crazy."

And I thought, what better place to work through some of these than this blog? Especially when I feel like I really don't have anything interesting or funny to write about.

The first activity is "Make a Fast List of the Reasons You Don't Feel Like Writing"

So here goes:

1. I don't have anything to say that hasn't already been said before and way better than I could say it.
2. I'm a mom. The unique stories that I do have are many times about my children. Now that they are older, it's harder to use them as subjects for my writing. I want to respect their privacy.
3. I feel guilty when I write because there is other, more important stuff that I should be doing. Like laundry, cleaning toilets, and making lunch.
4. I feel like I whine. A lot.
5. And complain. A lot.
6. Even though I say that I write for me, I really am afraid that no one will read what I write.
7. And if by chance they do, they won't like what they read.
8. My posts are too long. Or too short.
9. I use too many commas.
10. I'll hit "publish" and completely miss some horrifyingly embarrassing spelling error.

At Loose Ends

It started on Monday, when I woke up at the same time I always do. I did the same things I always do first thing in the morning. I got dressed in my "summer wardrobe"--running shorts and a t-shirt. Started the 40 minute process of rousing teens on a summer morning.

And I felt out of sorts. Like there was something really important I was supposed to be doing that I had forgotten.

And it hit me. All of my colleagues at the school I've worked for for the past six years woke up early on Monday. They dressed in their "school wardrobe." They drove to our school building (some of them headed out before dawn) and were sitting in beginning of the year meetings.

And I didn't. I wasn't.

For the first time in seven years, I am not gearing up to help families start another year of the joys and challenges of schooling at home.

For the first time in fifteen years, I am not gearing up to start a school year where I teach AT ALL. My own learners, or anyone else's.

This is a really uncomfortable feeling for me.

Yesterday, I stopped by my (and I hate to even write this) "old" school. I dropped some things off. I got to visit with some dear, amazing people that I have no idea when I'll ever see again. I held it together until I pulled out of the parking lot to leave. Then I ugly cried.

And today.

School is starting here in the little hamlet where I will reside for one more week.

Facebook is full of pictures of the excited faces of my friends' kids with their new clothes and new backpacks. Looking so much older than this time last year.

And my kids aren't joining them.

And while this makes me feel like a spectator and a little left out, my kids are loving the fact that they are still on summer vacation. They won't be so happy when their Midwest friends are out in May next year and they're still trudging to school in June.

But it really seems as though there is nothing for me to do.

Our house is sold, for all intents and purposes.

We have a contract on a house where we're moving.

I'm just marking time.

And I have absolutely no vision at all for what my purpose is going to be in our new place.

Except to try to survive and help everyone else do the same.

Stereotypical

I have always said that I don't buy into stereotypical husband and wife roles in marriage.

I think it's great that Better Half can work the washing machine, knows how to cook something other than toast, goes to parent-teacher conferences when I'm not around, cleans kitchens pretty well when he can stay focused, and is the best paint color picker-outter I know. I think he can even put hair into pigtails.

And I...well...sometimes I mow the lawn. :o) I have used an electric sander and a drill when absolutely necessary. I can kill spiders (but I really don't like to) and I did change the faucet in my bathroom (with a LOT of help from my dad).

Okay. Fine. I really just think it's great that my husband can do all of the things that I can do. I can't really do the stuff he does. But I wish I could. At least some of the stuff he does.

So when I woke up Friday morning to a lukewarm shower and then no hot water at all, I began to panic. Gas...Pilot lights...Water heaters...these are Better Half jobs.

But Better Half isn't here.

So I call him. Even though there's a two hour time difference and it's only 5:30 am there.

Don't judge. No hot water is an emergency, people. We could have a gas leak or something.

He suggests that I check the water heater.

I take a look at it. There is no pilot-light glow in the little pilot-light peephole.

I remind myself that I can read. And I'm college educated. I read the directions on the water heater for igniting the pilot light.

I follow them.

No "woosh" of gas. No warm glow of pilot light.

I try again. And again. Still no success.

So I call the gas company. Something is clearly wrong. Gas is clearly not getting to my water heater.

To make a long story short, they send out a guy.

A very nice guy who gets the pilot light started In. One. Try.

Forthelove.

And if that wasn't enough.

Later in the day, it started to get muggy. So I went to the thermostat and cranked down the AC a couple of degrees.

Usually this is followed by a whir of noise and deliciously cold air from the floor vents.

On Friday--no whir of noise. No deliciously cold air from the floor vents.

Panic started to set in. There's a contract on this house. Someone wants to buy it. And we've got a broken air conditioner.

Yep. You guessed it. I called Better Half. He said to call the air conditioner people.

They came right over.

And...wait for it.

Walked downstairs to the basement and flipped a switch on the breaker box.

I am not kidding about this.

They were very kind. They helped me save face by telling me that our unit was "a little low on freon and needed to be cleaned out." So they fueled it back up and turned my hose on it to get the dirt off. They told me to have a great day.

So much for girl power. I'm kind of feeling like the clueless "little woman" these days.

My Time Out

I apologize.

For going off the grid with no warning.

But it was the "Love and Logic" consequence for 11+ years of procrastinating.

"I'll paint that later."

"We'll remodel that sometime."

"I'll fix that this weekend."

"We'll parent them better tomorrow."

The result was inevitable.

A monumental grounding of epic proportions.

No Facebook. No blogs. No social life. No exercise. No sleep. No reading for pleasure.

Until the work was done. The repairs made. The damage controlled.

It wound up taking all summer.

And still, we had to rely on reinforcements.

Dear friends, family, plumbers, electricians, doctors (the psychiatrists will come later, I'm sure), etc. stepped up and helped us out.

I don't have adequate words to say thank you.

And the work is finally done.

Our house here has a "SOLD" sign in the front yard.

A house (that I have never seen In. My. Life.) in the Inland Empire has a contract on it. But that's another post.

During all of this, people would ask about Facebook. I'd say I'd been grounded from it. And the response would be, "How am I going to read your blog???"

Or, "Now, when you move to California, you're going to get back on Facebook again, right?"

First of all, even though I only maintain this blog for my sanity, my inner narcissist is very happy that people besides immediate family members read it.

It's going to be lovely to get back to it.

And secondly, even though I have had so much more free time without a Facebook account, I did miss the connections.

I set up a new account and I love seeing everyone's pictures and hearing about everyone's lives.

And I do apologize if I inadvertently offended anyone.

Mom-Fail

I need to stop trying to be a young, hip mom. 

I need to study the date on my driver's license and get comfortable with it.

Yesterday, youngest daughter (who is 11) and I were watching TV.

She started being 11--you know...talking loud and giggling so I couldn't hear...that sort of thing.

So I thought I'd try asking her to stop in a little bit of "younger generation" lingo.

What I was going for was either:

"Knock it off...yo!"

or 

"Knock it off...hello??"

But it must have come out like...

"Knock it off, Ho!"

due to her fiercely indignant (and completely merited) response of

"WHAT did you call me?!?!"

Epic. Mom. Fail.

The Art of Negotiation

I don't know how it is at your house, but at mine summertime means that the sleepover requests (which I think are frequent anyway) really ramp up. 

And you'd think it would be the girls. But it isn't. 

It's my youngest son. 

So the conversation went something like this:

Three days ago
Him: If I do some stuff around the house first (they CAN be taught!) can I have some friends spend the night on Friday.

Me: Let's talk about that the closer it gets to Friday.

Today:
Him: What do you need me to do around the house so I can have some friends over tonight? 
(They are amazingly helpful when there's something in it for them. :o) )

Me: (Quickly calculating the number of stinky feet and unshowered bodies I'm willing to have in my basement at one time and the amount of $$ in the budget I'm willing to spend on Mountain Dew, Pringles, and Sour Gummy Worms) How many friends are we talking about here?

Him: How many can I have? 4? 5?

Me: Uhh. How about 3?

Him: 4?

Me: 2?

Him: 4?

(Usually this strategy works in my favor. I bargain down, and then what I suggested in the first place doesn't seem so bad. Apparently I'm losing my touch.)

Me (still trying): 1?

Him (grinning): 4?

Me (sensing a difficult victory this time): Who are you wanting to have over exactly?

Him: Kid I've known my entire life, Kid I've known as long as I can remember, Kid I spend as many waking hours as I possibly can with, and New Kid.

(Older son enters. Subject gets changed. I get up to leave.)

Him: So just 3?

Me: If I just let you have 3, who doesn't get invited? New Kid?

Him: Probably.

Me (admitting defeat): Okay. 4.

Sometime, in the not so distant future, New Kid is gonna be my kid. I hope sleepover negotiations in the Inland Empire go the exact same way this one did.

Whatever a Man Sows...

I am 100% responsible for this. I'll totally own it.

I've read the books...the articles...the blogs...listened to the talk radio programs. 

I can quote Jim Fey and Sally Clarkson with the best of them. My parenting books are highlighted, dog-eared, and the bindings are cracked.

My perfectionism got in the way. My impatience got in the way. My procrastination got in the way. My need for just a few minutes by myself got in the way.

I have FANTASTIC children. They are some of the most amazing human beings on the earth. They are. They are smart and funny. They are loyal friends. They (in front of me, at least) treat adults and peers with respect (most of the time). They apologize when they mess up.

They DO NOT help around the house.

Again. I own this. 

It didn't seem like such a big deal to let them go to bed with toys out when they were little. 

Or to say, "Not today, Honey. Mommy is in a hurry." when a preschooler asked to "help" wash a window or make a salad.

It's a big deal now.

I'm totally owning the crop I reaped this morning:

Offspring: Can I go over to ___________'s house?

Me: MAY I go over to ______________'s house. Certainly. After you load the dishwasher and do 30 minutes of reading.

Offspring: LOAD THE DISHWASHER?? Why?? That's not FAIR!

Me: silence.

Offspring: I'm NEVER gonna get to go because as soon as I'm done with this you are going to have ANOTHER dumb thing for me to do.

Me: The only thing that will keep you from getting to do what you want to do is your tone of voice. Which is getting dangerously close to the line. Just saying.
(Exit)

(A few minutes later. Dishes still all over the counter. No offspring to be seen. Dishwasher door open. Racks hanging out.)

Me (Inhaling deep calming breaths): What are you doing?

Offspring: Reading. Like. You. Told. Me. To.

Me (It isn't easier for me to just say forget it and do it myself. It isn't. It isn't.): You aren't done loading the dishwasher.

Offspring (sighing and stomping back into the kitchen): What do I still need to do??

Me (gesturing to the glasses and the silverware on the counter): When I said, "Load the dishwasher," I meant ALL of the dishes.

Offspring: Ugh! WHY do I have to do this. 

Me: And as soon as it is full, you will also need to put soap in it and start it. Just letting you know now.

Offspring: WHAAAT? You said ONE CHORE!!! THAT'S TWO CHORES!!

Me (calculating how many hours until 5:00 when it will be acceptable to pour a glass of wine): As soon as you are done with this and get your reading done, feel free to begin your plans for the day.

At this point, dear reader, steam is coming out of my beloved offspring's ears. And I feel a migraine coming on. 

Offspring finishes throwing cups into the dishwasher, dumps soap into it, shuts the door "firmly" and stomps off to her room to read.

As I write this I hear absolute silence here in the kitchen. I glance over at the dishwasher.

Me: Dear, sweet, Offspring. In order for the dishwasher to run, you have to press the 'start' button.

Offspring: I thought I did.

Me: You didn't.

Offspring: Sorry.

Me (I have to win this one. I have to win this one): Please come turn on the dishwasher.

Offspring: Are you SERIOUS?? You're right there! Can't you turn it on??

Me: Nope. 

I suspect I will replay this scene at least three more times today. 

Word on "The Hill"

Well, I did it.  I crossed the finish line.

I didn't walk all of it, but I did walk part of it.  The pace group leaders called it "Power Walking."  They said it is part of good running strategy.  Whatever.  It was still walking.  Usually I am a purist.  Today I was totally okay with walking.  More on pace group leaders in a little bit.

My time did suck.  I'm also okay with this.  Actions (or in this case, little to no action) have consequences.

I'm sure I looked like an idiot.

For some reason, this picture comes to mind:

Lots of thoughts swirled through my brain for the roughly three-and-a-half hours I was at the race.  Here are the coherent ones in no particular order:

~I am not a runner.  I can run.  Much of my exercise routine includes running.  I occasionally run races.  But I am not a runner.  I'm not built like a runner.  I'm not competitive enough to be a runner.  I dislike excruciating pain and feeling like I want to vomit too much to be a runner.  Races like Hospital Hill have lots of runners.  They also have lots of people like me.  That's pretty cool.

~My competitive sport experience is admittedly narrow, but I would hold distance runners, their fans, and race support staff/ volunteers to be among some of the nicest, kindest, most supportive and friendly people in the world.  From the people I chatted with while waiting to start, to the six or so people in the pace group I ran with, to the police officers re-routing traffic, to the Girl Scouts raking up hundreds of  crumpled paper cups, to runners' sweet children holding up signs of encouragement--this is a fantastic group of people.  Run, watch, or volunteer for a race just so you can interact with these incredible people at least once in your life.

~I was unbelievably lucky to get to run this particular race today.  I could run it yearly for 10+ years and not get the amazing weather we had. 13.1 hilly miles run the first weekend in June in Kansas City, Missouri is a recipe for...well...misery.  The weather today was delightful.

~I am sold on pace groups.  I have run a couple of halfs before and I didn't use them.  At the advice of my dear friend the personal trainer and nutritionist, I utilized them this time.  They are FANTASTIC!  The two amazing people who led mine probably deserve to be named in my will.  I might not have finished the race without them.  I certainly would not have enjoyed it.  And I did enjoy running this race.  They joked, laughed, encouraged, supported, and most importantly...kept me from running too fast in the beginning.  My time did suck, but It was totally worth it to spend 2 1/2 hours with them and the "2:30" group.

~I'm getting a Garmin running watch as soon as I can.  The Mapmyrun app on my phone sucks.  Just saying.

~Playlists are very important.  As I started out, "Vienna" by Billy Joel hit my ears.  "Slow down, you crazy child..."  Good advice.  I took it.  :o)  "The Lazy Song" by Bruno Mars really has to go.  Especially since it blasted at around mile 6.  Not fantastic timing in the least.

~My friend, Jennifer, said that when she ran Hospital Hill the first time, it didn't really seem that hilly.  It was the second...and third...and fourth times that she really noticed them.  I can only vouch as a first-timer, but I agree.  It didn't seem as hilly as I expected it to be.  If I ever do it again, I don't expect to be so pleasantly surprised.

~During the last couple of miles of the race, we had to move out of the way for an ambulance with its lights and sirens going.  I hate that I now have to hope that it's just "someone with heat exhaustion" and not someone injured by senseless terrorism.

~I said earlier that it is really cool that lots of people like me can run races like this.  And it is.  But those of us who run but are not runners need to respect the fact that there are real runners who are running this race to win. or to PR.  Or in the case of full marathons...to achieve qualifying times for other, more prestigious races.  We need to do our homework and be respectful and make sure our race experience doesn't get in the way of theirs by hanging back to start...not running six abreast...pulling over to the side to walk...etc.

~Kansas City really is a very pretty city.  Well.  It has very pretty parts.

~Getting a "Good luck on your race" text from your oldest daughter sometime between miles six and seven and a "It won't be long now.  Hang in there" text from your husband is nearly as good as having them there in person cheering me on.

~I'm not trying to judge here, but might I suggest that if you have enough energy to take a picture of Every. Single. Mile. Marker. on the course and update your Facebook status with your phone, that you could use that energy to knock some seconds/minutes off of your time and not stop in the middle of the course?

~Find a running friend. Run a race with them.  It doesn't matter if he/she is better than you are.  It's just so nice not to feel like you are running a race all by yourself.  You need someone with whom to take a "Why Exactly Are We Doing This?  We Must Be Crazy" before race picture:

And a "We Did It And We Didn't Die!" after race picture:

~It is a bonus if this person also believes that the only appropriate post-race meal is a steak salad from Chipotle.

~There were LOTS of times where I wondered what on earth I was doing and where I swore to myself that I'd never sign up for anther one of these crazy things again.  Specifically at miles six and eleven and the part where you can see the finish line but you're far enough away that you could still drop dead before you have a chance to cross it.

~That feeling is quickly forgotten.  I'm already Google searching half and full marathons in Southern California.

Fantasy Island

It took me the better part of three days, but I finally got the summer schedule and potential summer activities on the calendar.

I wonder if it is possible to add just one more thing to do at 6:30 pm on Monday evenings?

I'm starting to get hives.

So much for the "lazy days of summer."

That fantasy was nice while it lasted.

The Fine Line

There is a fine line between "hard" and "stupid."  

And at 7:00 am Central Time tomorrow morning, I'm gonna walk...no, run...no, probably jog and walk...probably mostly walk that line.

Back in April, a dear friend sent this text:

"Hospital Hill?"

Hospital Hill is a half Marathon in Kansas City.  So named because...wait for it...the course goes by a hospital and it has hills.  Lots of them.  Like at least 5 that were deemed worthy enough to be marked on the course map.  Probably there are more that wouldn't be considered worthy by Kansas Citian standards, but certainly will be by this rural Kansas girl's.  

Anyway...it's the oldest road race in Kansas City and I've always wanted to run it.  And this is the last year that the starting line is within driving distance from my house.  Next year, airports and the like would have to be involved.

Also (and this is VERY important to note) my friend sent me this text mid April.  I was feeling good.  Eating well.  Still on the "I-did-ALL-of-the-pullups-in-the-CrossFit-WOD-as-prescribed" high.  Kind of feeling like an invincible Badass. 

So I'm not sure I can be responsible for my response.  Which was (and I scrolled back through my texts to verify that I did respond in the affirmative):

"Yes!!!"  Three exclamation marks and everything.

All of this was before May hit.  

The month of May has kicked my tail.  There's really no other way to say it.  I have been one very long "to do" list away from the kind of depression where I just want to take to my bed, curl up under the covers and spend the rest of my life alternating between watching "The West Wing" on Netflix and sleeping.

All I have been doing is the bare minimum.  Taking care of my children well enough to keep social services from knocking on my door and working my way through the endless "to do" list.  

I have not been exercising and I certainly have not been training for any half Marathon. I have not really even been very enjoyable to be around.
 
 I kept my children alive.  I'm still married to my husband.  Our senior in high school graduated.  We had a reception.  The pile of junk in the living room is gone.  We have two working bathrooms.  I finished up my school duties and resigned from my job.  We got through a spring dance show.  Somehow, I made it through a big hunk of the "to do" list, which I thought would make me feel better and lift me out of the funk I've been in.  It didn't and it hasn't.


And I still had this race staring me in the face.  This race that my friend would not have signed up to run if I had not said I would as well.  This race that I really want to run.  


Okay.  Fine.  This race that I really want to want to run.  What I want to do is sleep and watch "The West Wing."


I asked people if they thought I was crossing the line between "hard" and "stupid" by attempting it.  My family--who has absolutely nothing to gain by me leaving town for two days and possibly being worthless for the next week--thinks I can handle it.  My extended family thinks I'll regret not trying it.  My friend who is also a personal trainer said the most obvious thing:


"It's only a half Marathon."


I'm sure some of you are rolling your eyes and saying  "ONLY" under your breath, but It's true.  

It is only a half Marathon.  13.1 miles.  Somewhere between 2 1/2 and 4 hours.

What bad things could possibly happen?

I'll have to walk part of it?

All of it?

My time will suck?

It will hurt?

I'll look like an idiot?

Sure.  Any of those things could and probably will happen.

But the worst thing that could happen is that I won't finish.  Which will 100% happen if I do not at least cross the starting line tomorrow.

And  I thought (and am thinking) about all of the UNBELIEVABLY. HARD. Things people have done or endured for way longer than it will take me to finish tomorrow--even if I have to walk the entire thing.

I'm looking forward to hanging with my dear friend this evening.  She's one of maybe two...possibly three...people in the entire world who knows every one of my deep, dark, secrets and surprisingly...likes me anyway.  Her home always feels like a peaceful haven.

I'm looking forward to running this race with her.  Yes.  that is an incredibly liberal use of the word "with."  Between the moment she crosses the finish line and I do, she will have time to find a coffee shop, grab some Java, read the paper, head home and shower...you get the idea.  So I guess I'm looking forward to riding to the race together and tackling Downtown Kansas City parking with solidarity.

I'm looking forward to this maybe being the thing that pulls me out of my funk so I can start tacking the next "to do" list and enjoying the next few months.

And I'm looking forward to the fact that tomorrow, when the Realtor comes to start the process of listing my house, I'll be  out getting conquered by the hill.  

Because I'd rather be doing just about anything else than be here for the thing that will finally mean I'm really moving.