DesignMom posted the story of how our family came to be over on her blog yesterday. So honored to have it included in her Growing A Family series.
It might not look the same as most, but it's our story and we're sticking to it. Sticking to each other. And, if we're being honest, quite happy to be stuck.
Sitting in my office, watching the gentle swirl of the building snow and the birds settling in on the tree just outside my window. The buzz and rush of the season gone and the chance to clean up a little and refresh a bit. Enjoying the downtime of this bye week, before the school schedules come back in and the pie-for-breakfast is out.
Remembering to be grateful for these three. My greatest gifts. Taking the time to smell them and snuggle them and enjoy what they say and do and who they are right now.
Wondering how I came to have such an incredible life--one so different than what I ever would have planned on my own and yet so much better than I could have imagined.
Completely astonished that the calendar will roll over to give us 2015 this week, wondering what it will have to offer up and so blessed to be adventuring into it with this trio of wild, handsome boys by my side. Lucky, lucky girl, indeed.
And look! Family pictures! At Sundance, no less! Thank you, Blue Lily.
It started continued in the morning, when he came down to breakfast and asked for the millinonth time about how many hours, exactly, until his football game.
"And it's at the park, right? Too bad that we don't have a stadium. I play better with lots of people cheering." No self-image issues here, thank you very much.
He came home after school, asking to don his city-league jersey and ensemble, but was reminded he couldn't go out to play with friends in his cleats. He opted to skip playing and run around the house in full uniform.
After counting down the minutes and switching the reversible jersey from silver to red and back to silver no less than 14 times, the whistle was blown. And he had the opening kick, a skill he's been working on with gusto in the backyard for weeks. It was much more impressive in person.
And, as it turns out, the kid's not all talk. He had a couple of great carries, two catches and . . . wait for it . . . an interception! An interception in first-grade flag football! The shortest midge on the team pulled off an interception. People screamed and cheered as a finally-downed Ian smoothly danced/swaggered around the field. Some were surprised, but not me so much. He's been pulling balls out of mid-air since long before he could walk.
It was all he could talk about. Best day of his life. But with back to back games, he's looking to top it tonight. In fact, you should join us. It's not a stadium, to be sure, but apparently this kid plays even better when there's a crowd.
The photo is from last summer when we road-tripped through the Swiss Alps. Turned out that we were staying at the base of the steepest funicular in Europe and everyone thought it was a great idea to try it out. Except me. Personally, I thought it was a horrible idea.
To say I have a fear of heights is underselling it a little. I'm deathly afraid of heights. I abhor them. I think I'm gonna die. And this is an open air, no-seat-belts mining train that takes you up the mountain at 106% gradient backwards? And worse, returns you back to the base, facing forward? Yeah, I'm pretty sure that Craig's "forgetting" to tell me about the train and the complimentary tickets that came with the rooms until we were right there was more than a tad on the fibbing side.
But I sucked it up. And I walked over the suspension bridge to the train station. And I got on the train. And I rode the train to the top. Without screaming or crying or making a scene. And I was pretty proud that I did. Not so proud that I didn't completely push for us to hike back down the long trail that, oddly, no one knew was there and turned out to be entirley lovely in a fleeing-Austria all Sound-of-Music-style way, but still . . . I marked it a win against the phobia.
The words came to my attention through the movie, Seabiscuit. One of my favorites. And they've been playing through my mind a lot over the last few days. I've been thinking about heights and being afraid and wondering just how far I can rise when called. There are times to sit still and there are times to rise. I think it might be time to stretch my stature a little bit, which means fear will have to take a backseat for a while.
My sister first dared me to run a half-marathon with her back in 2011. And I did in 2 hours, 36 minutes. But I really had no idea of what I was doing running-wise, training-wise, clothing-wise, eating-wise. Let's just say that I've become wiser. And since that time, I've had a goal to run another half, in under 2 hours.
Take 2. I trained for the Timp Half in 2012, and was well prepared and doing well on the course, up until allergies made my face blow up and I nearly died. Still pulled it in at 2 hours, 13 minutes, BTW. Revised goal: run a half in under two hours, without dying.
Take 3. I trained for the Vigor Cottonwood Half, for fall 2012--that was my baby. I was going to own that race, I was so prepared. And I was on target to get my time, too. Until I hit mile 13 and the finish line was no where in sight. The race organizers had added an extra half mile, which shouldn't really be a whole lot after you've run 13, but it is. Mentally you prepare yourself for only so much and when you're done, you're done. I ran those 13.6 miles in 2 hours, 6 minutes. Didn't count.
Take 4. Last year, I signed up for the same race down Big Cottonwood in the spring, but something happened. Something obnoxious enough that I didn't even blog about it. (Gasp!) Bad spring weather, forced me to the indoor track more often than not, even though I learned a long time ago that running on the track is bad for the old shins. Rather than face the snow, I hauled it around the 1/6-mile city center track for miles and miles that spring. And one morning, a little concerned that I was sucking wind way more than I should be at that point in the training, I decided some wind sprints were in order.
I summoned my energy and started alternating between sprinting the bulk of the track and walking a small straight-away before sprinting again. Over and over. Until during a pounding sprint, I felt a small twinge. A pinpoint stab in my right shin. I walked it off. And finished another rep before heading home. But when I started down the stairs toward the parking lot, I nearly fell on my face, losing much of the control over that knee and shin.
I took it easy for a few days. And started back in running gently. But the race was only five weeks out, and taking it easy wasn't on the schedule. There was pain, but I was tough and it usually subsided after about mile three anyway, so I vowed to buck up and get through it. After all, I'd waited months for that race, I couldn't just stop.
Race day found me at the top of the mountain, ready to run. But the pain returned and the running felt sluggish. Until right before mile four when I gave myself a choice--pull out at the next aid station or get moving. I decided on the later, just in time for endorphins to take over and blast me down the mountain. With only dull pain, I crossed the finish line at 1 hour, 56 minutes. I was elated! I took my medal, grabbed a water and an apple and sat down on the ground to stretch. Five minutes later, I discovered I couldn't stand up. Fail.
It was a couple days before I could walk without crutches and a over a week before I could take the stairs without help. Turned out I'd caused a small stress fracture during my wind sprints five weeks prior and the race had only served to make it much, much worse. Epic Fail.
I didn't run for about four months, and by then it was almost winter so I didn't run some more. I did some yoga throughout the cold months to help with circulation and flexibility, and by March, I was itching to get back to the road. But I was really rusty. As in, I couldn't make it half a mile before stopping to walk.
No speed meant I had no excuses not to take The George with me. So we started out on some long, slow walks, just the dog and me. And we slowly pick up the pace and mileage as that weather got better.
The May race came and went, as I was no where near ready to keep pace for longer than five or six miles at a time. I took the summer to prepare, running hills, running the canyon, doing long runs every weekend (all with The George) and icing my legs in between. I took it slow and steady, certain that September was going to be the sweet spot. There were aches and pains and two bouts of bronchitis. One week before the race, I took a steep run and came home limping, shaking my head in disgust. But more ice, more walking, more running, more antibiotics made me confident. I needed the race and I was going to be ready.
Take 5. Last Saturday morning, I sat in a campground up Big Cottonwood canyon, curled up under a supplied emergency blanket, waiting for the call to head to the start line.
And then I ran. Down one of my favorite canyons filled with other crazy race people and fall color just starting to come on the trees.
It was exhilarating--exactly what I had been waiting for. Not easy, certainly stressful, exhausting to be sure--but the total high that I'd been craving.
There were so many people at the finish line that Craig and the boys missed me as I passed into the corral. I found a pizza and a diet coke before I found them and I didn't even get a picture as we headed to the cars, because I'm certainly not the only athlete in the family and there were other moments to be celebrated that day. Ian's team won 4 - 0.
I crossed the finish line 1 hour, 59 minutes and 32 seconds after I started. My face was a regular size and my legs were intact. Aside from super sore calf muscles, I was golden and glowing.
Run a half in under 2 hours, without dying? Check!
I'm still a little high from the feeling of such a big, albeit personal, win. And it's already got me looking ahead--if I can do that, what's next?
I like these guys. They're as good company as they are good looking. And we had a wonderful and wild summer. So wild and wonderful that not only did I not blog about our summer, I also took not one photo with my Nikon. As I flipped back through the files to download these, there were pictures of Ian's Kindergarten graduation . . . and then these. Awesome. Thank the stars and heavens for iphone photography, yes? Never fear--I've had to download my phone three times this summer so there exists evidence of adventure.
So I sent my babies off to school. All day school. For both of them. Leaving me quite alone. All day long. For almost seven hours. It should be a good thing, right? Right? And it probably will be. I've been putting together a punch list for months--all the projects that I certainly wanted to do, but that couldn't possibly rank above summer boy time.
I had full intentions of getting right to it. In fact, I did the math--six and a half hours a day for four days that first week would be 26 solitary hours and I would probably be all the way through my list by sometime Friday morning.
And then I spent the first three weeks crying. Or looking at baby pictures and crying. Or cleaning up their rooms and crying. And when I wasn't crying, I was wandering around the house trying to determine my new purpose in life, now that my old purpose had been significantly downgraded. And then I'd cry a little more.
But I think I'm past the worst of it. For today. And I'm starting to get things accomplished--house is cleaned, dinner is going, quilt fabric is standing by. And as soon as I decide what this next stage is going to mean for me, I'm going to just kill it, I'm sure.
In the mean time, I wait for these two characters to come home from school, so that I can feed them and drive them around to practices and games and the library. So far, they like to come home and crash, reading books and drawing pictures of football players, rather than heading out to meet up with friends. I push a little--the weather is so nice--but not real hard. Truth be told, I don't mind one bit. You know, because I like these guys.
This has been a lovely little project. I saw something like it over here with r0ssie and thought that it would make a fun (and slightly modern) baby quilt. Or two.
It's a little more piecing than I usually do for baby quilts, but it's simple and straightforward, so I don't mind. I love seeing the perfect little stacks all pinned together and I can sew them together mindlessly while I watch spring happen outside my window. Before I know it, I look down and I've got a whole string of birds to be pressed and pinned up.
I'll leave it up on the wall for a few days--adding and subtracting birds, moving them to the left and the right, adjusting the white space--until it looks just right. And then quick, take it down and pin it together before I overthink the whole thing.
+ It's finally starting to look like spring--the trees are blossoming and things are looking more bright green and less dead brown.
+ Except for where I saw a little flurry of snow outside my window. I'm entirely over the indecisive, multiple-personality weather. It was cute in January--Oh, look! A day in the 50s followed by a snowstorm! Hilarious. It was expected in February--Blustery and wet through sunshine? Oh, you, February Weather! But in April, the weather needs to make a decision and get it's act together. Sure, 72 degrees is nice, but I'd settle for 60 every day, if we didn't have to alternate that delightful 72 with snow and 45 MPH winds. I've giving you until May, Weather, and then we're gonna have a talk You know what's really adorable, Weather? Green.
+ But the city must think spring is really coming because they turned on our city grey water. And we developed a geyser in the front yard. I didn't see it, but our kindly neighbors who ran to turn it off for me said that a whole section of my front yard was floating and making a run for the downhill neighbor's yard. Craig and the landscape guy will spend some time tomorrow morning seeing just how big a leak we sprung.
+ I'm hoping that the leak is small, because I am itching to plant--plant flowers in the pots, plant garden in the boxes. Loved this post on how to plant seeds in eggs. I've two dozen egg shells and a packet of purple Candy Tuft seeds--I'mma ready.
+ And speaking of the boxes, boy are they looking sorry. Can't decide if I need to build new boxes around them, start from scratch or just get by with them for one more season. Leaning towards doing them in phases, because truth be told, I'm more concerned about the precious dirt than the boxes themselves. That's prime turkey manure soil that's had two years to become perfected--this is my year and I can't waste any growing time building boxes. I can almost taste the garden tomatoes.
+ I've already had my fill of fixing things. After multiple patched tires and new tires and chain adjustments, Ian's bike--a $10 DI (thrift store) Special--was at it's end. The chain was damaged and Ian had (very reluctantly) returned to the scooter for the last week, while I searched for a solution. Spend more money than the bike is worth to fix it up or get a new bike in April, taking away that privilege from Santa Claus come December. Enter the blessed KSL Classifieds! Heavens part. Angels sing. We found a speedy little new (used-but-in-great-shape) bike for a deal and he was back in business.
+ Except for the next day when the chain fell off. Seriously? And then, when the boys didn't come right home from school, I hopped on my bike and found them half-way home, with a second mangled chain for the day and a distraught Ian. Fifteen minutes later, we'd walked home, calmed down and tossed that puppy in the car. Fifteen minutes after that, the teenage kid at the bike shop wheeled it out, explained the problem he'd fixed and said no charge, while remotely opening the double doors so we could roll on out. Heavens part. Angels sing. So kind, I coulda kissed him.
+ The bike is doing so well, we just got back from a ride to the park where we missed soccer practice (wrong time) but met up with other biker boys who wanted to ride laps. Laps! A mother's dream on a Friday afternoon! Yay! And it was their idea! Double yay! Twenty-five laps later a winner was declared and all were ready to come home.
+ Apparently the blogging thing is back on. For now.
+ Did I mention that I'm eager for spring? I am. It was a long winter and I'm in a few deep ruts. Time to get up, get out, dust off and move on, don't you think?
En route to Kindergarten, lead kid Kayden calls back to his friends, "My secret code-name is Sassin. That's what you have to call me from now on. Okay?"
I think he meant Assassin, from a video game, maybe?
"Yeah," yells Chase, who turns to fill in our trailing Ian on the plot he'd missed. "We have secret code-names and his name is Sassin."
"You have to call me Sassin from now on, okay?" Kayden yells back to make sure he's been heard.
"Okay!" Chase responds. "And I'm Captain Rex."
From Star Wars--that one I knew.
"You have to call me Captain Rex, okay?"
"Okay," Ian agrees before offering up his own pseudonym on the spot. "And you can call me Hornblower."
As in Horatio Hornblower, British naval hero of the Napoleonic Wars, created by novelist C.S. Forester and brought to our family by A&E's miniseries starring Ioan Gruffudd.
I've switched or reformatted my computer for something like the sixth time in the last three years. And so, my files are a jumbled mess of nested folders labeled really helpful things like "January 2012 Crash Dump" which would include everything on that particular desktop at that moment, right before it was moved refugee-style to a temporary external hard drive and then dropped onto a new desktop with grand plans to reshuffle and organize. Six moves means it's a big mess and I really should get to it. Especially since I've got a presentation coming up and I need to find some pictures. What is it they say? Necessity is the mother that gives you a swift kick in the tookis.
And I might be making some head-way if it weren't for files filled with photos like this.
That's a not-quite three-year-old Jack at Balboa Park in San Diego. Younger by more than half of Ian's age right now. He was still in Nursery at church. Look at those bright eyes. And those little teeth. And those apple cheeks. And that silky-fine curly hair.
And Ian was almost exactly a year away. We were getting impatient.
That kid in the back? The one pushing Jack? The blurry pre-photobombs photobomber? That little kid was six--Ian's age exactly. That little kid is now as tall as me and at 14, babysits for us once a week. He still makes the kids laugh outloud.
And feeling old reminds me that I'm forgetful. Now what was I doing?
three-hundred sixty-five days of the little & the happy are over here.
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