I am at work and we will say this quietly because this never happens and I don’t want the work gods to hear me, but it’s (whispering) not crazy busy right now, so I figured I should use my time at work to update your insane life.
Since Thanksgiving (which was the last time I really updated this site in any sort of substantive way), a lot has changed. You are at Miss Emily’s still three days a week. You do seem to enjoy your time there. I think you very much like the interaction of the other boys and really dig having someone to play with. However, said interaction with other kids has produced the following:
*three ear infections – two of them bilateral
*countless snotty noses
*a penchant for climbing (more on that later)
*thinking throwing objects upon our trying to retrieve them is the way to handle that situation – seriously, like a crackhead dumping his stash while running from the cops.
Let’s talk climbing first. You have attempted to climb me, chairs, sofas, you stepped into a wire magazine rack to reach something on the table you desired, you have attempted to scale cabinets, lawn chairs, etc. It’s like you have no fear. Due to such endeavors, you have scraped yourself on your legs and one very grusome looking scrape that messed your nose up pretty good. (We will not discuss the arrogant pediatrician who took one look at your nose and declared that “we really should child proof our home.” Asshat.) I’m not sure how to curb this other than to allow you to fall and crack your head open on the ceramic tile. Oddly enough, I’d prefer to not utilize this particular school of discipline, so I’m sorta at a loss. You get so mad when I remove you from the kitchen chairs because me saying 400 times, “Buddy, you gotta sit” and planting your diaper-clad ass on the seat from the standing position is not working. I mean, mad as in arched back, contorted face in anger, very close to Linda Blair-esque neck spinning, pea soup-spitting. It’s like I flat out told you that you don’t rule the world and this is the first you have heard of this insanity.
You also get that pissed when you have it in your head that it’s outside time. And to you? It’s outside time 24/7. I mean, that’s great and all because I’m sorta outdoorsy (shut up), but that’s not condusive to say, 10 minutes before the bath/milk/bed combo or say when it’s like 40 degrees out and mama’s toes have frozen into one solid brick. You are not interested in my toe problems or scheduling issues. You want to be OUT.SIDE. RIGHT. NOW. You really don’t get why I can’t comprehend this simple request. I think you may have contacted my boss and asked him why the hell he hired me since clearly I’m an idiot and can’t follow simple instructions.
You also have finally given into the fact that shoes? Are notsomuch a luxury as a necessity. I mean, we have discussed ad nauseum my love of the toes. If it were up to me, we would live somewhere tropical (and by tropical, I don’t mean HERE) where we could live in sandals, flip flops and barefeet all year round. But here it is cold approximately 15 days a year so just for safety sake, you gots to wear da shoes. At first you were like WHAT? Then you realized that when you tromped around in them, they made noise and that’s like catnip to you. So then the shoes became sorta fascinating. You would stroll around with your head facing straight down just watching your feet move one at a time. It was pretty funny. Now, you made the connection that shoes means either outside or you are going out with mama or daddy and that’s just big fun right there, so you don’t even fight it anymore, which is great. You are all for anything that means you can sit in a buggy and continuously wave to people who are paying no attention.
OMG, speaking of outside. You did the unthinkable the other day. We were outside and you had just slid down your little slide deal. Something caught your eye so you bent over and picked up a bee like “Hey, what’s that? Is it edible?” I completely flipped. I had no idea what to do. I mean, part of me was like getthebeegetthebeegetthebee, but I was like frozen, because bees? They sting and ouch. Not you though, you just held it by what appeared to be its legs and it never stung you and then grandma sorta swatted at your hand with her cane and you let it go sans injury. Lord, son. That was no bueno, okay? I’m just glad your father was not there to mock me for my ridiculousness thereby necessitating yet another instance of me telling him to cram it and let’s see what happens when Jake brings a small snake home. I want to watch him try to cling to the wall like a big giant girl.
Daddy and I have also made some changes in our lives as far as our health. I used to seriously work out for pure vanity sake (and then I fell into a pile of Cheetos and was eating my way out). I won’t even insult your intelligence by claiming it was anything other than “I want to fit into…..” (insert cute outfit here) That’s all it was. At some point though, I started trying to run. Notice I said trying. Oh son. It was funny in a “my lung may explode and did my thigh muscle just burst into flames” sort of way. For whatever reason, I kept going back for more (we shall assess my intelligence or lack thereof at a later date – or maybe you can use this as an instance of my lack of mental capability when trying to put me in a home later in life). Finally, after many weeks and countless setbacks, I ran for 30 straight minutes. Like in a row, son. A ROW. Something in me clicked. It was no longer about being size x, y or z or about wearing a tanktop without having batwing arms. (Although it’s a nice side-effect, but that’s all it is for me – a nice little side effect) I just wanted to see what I could do. So I kept on…kept adding time….adding distance until that distance became miles. In less than two weeks, I will run the Crescent City Classic. On purpose even. I won’t be the fastest. I probably will look a hot mess. I will probably have sweat in my eyes giving me the dreaded tomato eye look that is totally hot. I will probably make your dad drive the course from finish to start looking for the lobe of lung I am convinced I horked up somewhere around mile 4.3. But I will have done it and I will have done it for you and for me and for my health and for the cancer and heart disease and diabetes that runs rampant in the genetic deck of cards I helped to deal to you. I want the buck to stop here, son.
Somewhere along the line, your dad caught the bug. For months, he would watch me excrete more sweat than I thought my body could hold. He watched me set up routes online so I’d know my mileage. He’d watch me go out the door and come back red faced and sniffing (I really need to know why I get the snooty nose when I run. WHAT IS THAT?). And he’d joke when people would ask why he wasn’t out there with me. Something stupid about he doesn’t even DRIVE that far, blah blah blah. I didn’t bother even trying to get him to come with because when your dad does not want to do something, he will dig in his heels like a petulent 4-year-old. It’s a pointless fight so I just never bothered.
Well something in him clicked too. Now there are times after you go to bed where daddy and I slip on the running shoes, I strap on the Garmin and out we go. We do this for you, son. No doubt it’s nice to have a little less Liz and it’s great for your daddy to be off one of his medicines already, but at the end of the day, we do this for you. It’s not your fault that you got parents whose genetics sounds like a geriatric ward of some hospice clinic. We want it to stop here, son. We want to both grow old (your dad MUCH older than me) and watch you graduate from school, get married, have some kids and we want to be there to enjoy all that. I don’t want to be all laid up from heart disease or whatever else. I don’t want you to ever have to watch your dad get various limbs lopped off from diabetes the way your dad watched his own mama. It would not be fair to you. It’s not fair to us either. So here we are. Yeah, I will still salivate and if given the opportunity, swan dive directly into a pizza. And I have no doubt that your father would push me directly out of the car if there was fried chicken to be grabbed up somewhere. We don’t plan to become health nuts or exercise freaks. We just want to be here with you for as long as we can.
I mean, how else can we be a burden?