I have a friend. Her name is Julia. Everybody say, “Hi, Julia.” “Hi, Julia.”
Julia is one of my workout buddies. We recently started training for The Color Run in September, doing the Couch to 5Kprogram. I am not a runner. I’m not built like a runner. I’m chubby. I have short, stubby legs. My sprint is everyone else’s brisk walk. It’s kind of ridiculous. Fortunately, we are doing our training (for the time being) on side-by-side treadmills, since there is no earthly way I could keep up with Julia.
On our first day of training, I was struggling to do the 60 second intervals the workout called for. “75 hours!” Julia hollered at me. “This is nothing! You were in labor for 75 hours! This isn’t even one contraction!” Julia is an excellent workout buddy.
So I began to repay the favor, although to be honest it also helped me power through a difficult workout. “Philippians 4:13! I can do all things through Christ Jesus who gives me strength!” I would yell at her (and myself.) “We are now made more than conquerors through him who loved us and called us according to His purpose! We are running with perseverance the race marked out for us! His strength is made perfect in our weakness! Power through! We’re almost there!”
Occasionally we get funny looks from the body builders on the floor beneath us. I might care if I were using this as a ministry tool. It would be the least effective one ever. Can you imagine? Just going up to a stranger and screaming random Bible verses at them? Now pretend they’re 300 pounds of solid muscle and have biceps bigger than your head. Probably not a God-inspired activity this one.
But I don’t care what they think. Because I’m too busy living an overcoming life, walking in victory, and forcibly taking back territory in my life that the enemy used to own. So who cares if they think I’m the crazy lady on the treadmill? Not me. Not Julia. We’re too busy writing the word on our hearts. And yelling it in each other’s ears.
If you have never been to my house and you saw this picture, you might mistakenly assume we have only one seat. You would be wrong – there are several places to plop your posterior. However, apparently my son and my dog have decided they need to defy the laws of physics and simultaneously attempt to occupy the same point in space and time.
It has been decided that this particular seat is the best one in the house. Much wrangling ensued. There was climbing.
Wailing and gnashing of teeth.
Finally an agreement was reached, one in which no one really moved at all. But everyone is smiling and giving kisses so we’ll call it a win.
Although if you did it people would think it’s weird, on my son, his new habit is adorable. As soon as you open the car door to unbuckle him from his car seat, this is how he greats you. Foot in the air, like a high-five to the face, he beckons for a good tickling.
I know little things like this won’t last forever so I want to record them, remember them once they’re gone. Have pictures and stories to remind me of these little slices of his childhood.
That’s why, when I babysat a friend’s three-year-old yesterday, I wrote down all the hilarious things she said and did, so her mom could look back and remember that tiny piece of her life. A sampling:
Daddy was very hungry so he at a squirrel. He ate a whole family of squirrels! They were very yummy.
Oh no! The Big Bad Wolf is outside! He’s gonna eat my pizza!
Her: (While reading me a story) And then the teacher said, “No, because it all came out of your butt!”
Me: I don’t think that’s what she said
Her: Yeah, I’m pretty sure she did
I hope her mom tucks it away somewhere to surprise her and make her laugh when she’s having a bad day, to remind her how wonderful and funny her daughter can be. And I hope I remember to keep saving these little moments my own child shares with me for as long as they last.
The title about sums it up. But in case you’ve never met a toddler and/or never had spaghetti, the following pictures should give you an idea of just how much fun the two can be together.
After all his health issues it does my heart good to see my son eat with such great gusto, even if I’m the one who gets to clean him up after he’s done. Fortunately I have a dog who is also part vacuum.
We went to a local bookstore tonight to get coffee and took our son with us. In the children’s section, there is a giant pyramid of toys. My son found it, crawled in, and reached child nirvana. Please excuse the vertical video.
I have begun training for a 5K. Our team – Tutu Fabulous – is doing The Color Run in September and I could not be more excited. Unfortunately I have discovered (well, rediscovered) a trying malady that renders running difficult. It’s called Runner’s Trots. Basically it means when I run I have to poop. Like immediately. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Go directly to the potty.
This has been extremely problematic. For starters, I’m training with a friend. Every time I have to stop and go to the restroom, she has to put her workout on hold too. This was happening AT LEAST twice per workout and it’s only a 30-minute training session. (She was very gracious and also found the whole thing hilarious, but still.)
I was terrified that I wouldn’t make it through the 5K. I could picture myself literally having to stop at a different business every 5 minutes and beg to use the restroom. “This is not a drill people!” I would have to yell. “I need a toilet! STAT!” I could even hear myself threatening them if told toilets were only for paying customers, “I will poop on your floor!”
But then something amazing happened last week. I got diarrhea! With all this healthy eating and exercise, my body got confused. Which was GREAT! Silver lining – I made it through an entire training session without having to sprint to the women’s locker room. So of course I figured the best solution would be to simply acquire diarrhea the day of the race. But how? Should I lick a doorknob? Eat some questionable chicken? Play leftover roulette in the fridge?
Fortunately I don’t have to do any of those things. Today I triumphantly did a 35-minute training session without having to take my ease in Zion. That’s right. Today, I didn’t poop.
I don’t know any other way to admit this to you all but to just come clean. Our family has a secret we’ve been hiding for a couple months. We – oh it’s just so shameful – have – Lord help me – mice. We have mice. I’m not a hoarder! Admittedly my house isn’t meticulous (with three pets and a toddler, it’s a constant battle against fur) but it’s not what I’d call hospitable to vermin. The home we currently rent does not have an indoor pantry so we are forced to keep the pantry in the garage. For nearly three years things were fine. And then they weren’t.
The mice got into anything they possibly could in the pantry. And a bunch of gardening supplies. They ate spices, beans, baking supplies, fertilizer, grass seed. We tried setting traps but they weren’t sensitive enough to stop the mice. We only caught one and I just KNEW there were more than that. Then one somehow got into the house and ran into my son’s room. I screamed like a little girl (which I am not prone to doing) and threw a fit, emailing our landlord and DEMANDING something be done. Unfortunately our landlord lives on the other side of the planet (literally) and I STILL have not heard back from him.
This weekend my amazingly wonderful husband cleaned out the entire garage. He emptied the pantry, scoured the floors, picked up any loose papers or foods, and even found three dead mice trapped in the pitcher we used last summer to make sun tea (EWW! No worries. It’s been tossed.) Then we bought better traps. Ironically cheaper traps. Those small wooden snap traps. In the few hours they have been out I’ve already caught two mice and I am jiggered if they won’t all have been sent back to the pit of hell from whence they came by the end of the week.
I’m sitting here listening to the satisfying “Snap!” sound occasionally coming from the garage and feeling rather pleased with myself for being the mouse harbinger of doom. That’s not sadistic. Right?
All parents have played with their toddlers the “What’s In Your Mouth” game. You know how it goes. Your child is crawling across the floor chewing on something. You know YOU didn’t give them any food, so what could it be? Last night’s dinner courtesy of the floor? A rock? A marble? A bug? A little people? Our son is particularly fond of dog food.
While at a friend’s house Saturday evening I saw my son crawling around working on something. “What’s in your mouth, Son?” I asked as I put my finger in to do the familiar scrape-and-pull. “Oh. Okay. It’s dog poop.”
I have officially become a WAHM. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, WAHM stands for Work At Home Mom. (Although undoubtedly every mom is a work at home mom, this particular phrase refers to a mom who does not have a paying job outside the home.) It seemed so revolutionary to open my own business from home – the best of both worlds! Bring in income AND stay home with my child! Have it all! Be the amazing Wonder Woman!
Not so much.
Still – I am SO EXCITED because it’s only 17 more days until the store is up and running. There is so much to do! But today, being a WAHM looks a lot more like this: