Yep. He's a boy.

A running story

So if follow my blog, you’re already aware that in the last five years I’ve become a runner of sorts. I’m not hardcore, but it’s something I enjoy doing. It has become a primary outlet for releasing all my stay-at-mom anxiety. After a good leg-burning, heart pumping run, I honestly feel like I could conquer the world. It’s my therapy. And it allows me the leeway to eat dessert without guilt. Win-win.

And not to mention that nearly all of my favorite people are runners. And not only do my thrice-weekly runs allow me to sweat out my craziness, they also give me some hourish blocks of time with a few of my favorite people. Lots of laughing, gossip and heart-felt conversations occur during running. We talk about every aspect of our lives. Except when we’re trying to get up Cherokee or Lookout. Then you’ve just got to crank the music, put your head down and get strong. God. I love running.

And since become a runner, the ultimate goal-race of mine has been the Asheville half-marathon. I was just building my mileage for the first time when I got pregnant with Taylor is 2007. And since I was in the beginning stages of getting knocked off my rocker by motherhood, I stepped back and cheered on my friends and watched as they tearfully crossed the finish-line. It was bittersweet.

But then I created human life, got a jogging stroller and started running off the baby weight. And I got stronger. And instead of running the half the following September, I ran the adjoining 5k. And I crossed the finish line in 26.44. Which is pretty awesome. But watching all the finishers who just got done running 13.1 miles inspired me beyond words. And my inner-monolog while witnessing all of these people receiving their medals was, I could totally do that. I AM GOING TO DO THAT. I am going to cross that finish line.

So I kept up my training, continuing to run throughout that fall and winter. I competed in my first 10k in March and was well on pace, mileage-wise, to be in prime-shape to compete in the half marathon. But then, dun-dun-dunnn!, I got pregnant again. And while I adore my little Pookie more than words, while he was growing in my belly I was SO SICK. Barely a step above functioning, I was essentially wrapped around my toilet for the months of August and September. Miserable. Totally unable to break a sweat without barfing, let alone run over ten miles. Which was such a bummer, as my best friend and college roommate, Emily, and I had been simultaneously training so she could fly in from Iowa to run with me. Oh, and Chris was running. And so many of my friends and training partners. And I was so, SO PROUD of every one of them when they crossed the finish line that year. But I wanted to be out there so bad.

And then my sweet boy was born that following spring, and instead of sucking it up and starting to run again, I fell into a deep crack of no-sleeping and double-mothering. The last thing I was concerned about was running. It was about survival. So when last September rolled around and Chris and some of my friends ran the grueling 13.1 mile race, I was happy to cheer him on. And I experienced the same heart-wrenching happiness while watching all the runners cross the finish line, and witnessing each of them smile in triumph. Jeez! Seriously! If you’re ever feeling down, go to a local road race and stand near the end. Look at the smiles on the runners faces. It’s amazing.

So I started running a little bit more, and competed in a few 5k races. I was bound and determined to run this year’s half. No excuses. I was sleeping. I was not pregnant. I was doing this. And my runs got longer and longer, and faster and faster, and more and more manageable. It wasn’t easy, but it felt good. And my legs were getting strong again. And I signed up for half marathon.

But. GAH! Gotta love the Buts. Then my left foot started twitching. And then hurting. And then barley able to put weight on. And after a doctor’s visit, I was diagnosed with plantar fasciitis and told I couldn’t run for two weeks. Which doesn’t seem like a long time, but I was right in that crucial training schedule of moving up from six to eight miles. That’s a big jump. And to fall behind was a total bummer.

But I rehabbed it and tried to keep working out those two weeks, but the first run back was AWFUL. Sucked real bad. And so did the next two or three runs after that. And my inner-monolog for those following weeks were, I HATE THIS! Why am I even doing this? This is stupid. Blah, blah, blah.

In fact, while I was sitting on the beach with my lovely tooties at the beginning of August, I watched all the workout-barbies jog past me in my lounge chair and thought about what a drag it was that I wasn’t going to be able to run the elusive half this year. No way could I pull myself together for that. I was so not ready to huff it on the hilliest 13.1 mile course in the Southeast.

However. Coming off a refreshing, kid-free beach vacation was the best possible time to swing my arms, stretch my legs and download a new playlist. And running started to feel good again. Real good. And I knew I was pretty far behind by training buddies, but one weekend, about three weeks before the race, I woke up early and ran the first nine miles of the course. NINE! Ran the whole thing. At an alright pace. And it felt good. So I puffed out my chest and raised my fist in the air and said, THIS YEAR! I will run this race in three weeks. I’m doing it.

And guess who heard me? EVERYONE. Yeah. No backing out now. In fact, a friend of mine relayed my Gonna-run-it-finally story to a reporter for our city paper and I did a phone interview and photo shoot. And when I woke up the morning before the race, there I was in the Citizen-Times, spouting off about how excited I was to compete the next day and how I had wanted to check this race off my list for a long time. Lots of people read it and sent me messages and words of encouragement. I was famous for a minute. And there was absolutely no way I could back out now.

So I was super nervous the morning of the race. I had already set out all of my gear, my number, my gels and my iPod. We all got up at the crack of dawn and Chris and the kids dropped me off at the start and then they continued on to cheer for me at the halfway point. My heart was already racing, and the enormity of what I was about to do sunk in. I was practically vibrating with nervousness and adrenaline when I heard the starting horn blow, and then I pressed play on my iPod and started moving my feet. Here we go.

And while I had never run the course in it’s entirety, I was familiar with it all. Every hill, every downhill and every straightaway. I had mentally earmarked about five climbs on the route, reminding myself to keep breathing and stay strong in anticipation of those awful ascents. My playlist was killer, and I had already coordinated my music with both my pace and the course, so when I turned the corner to start up Cherokee, Cake’s The Distance started blaring in my ears and helped propel me up the switchback. I had a good sweat going, I was passing people, I was feeling good.

And that feeling lasted for a while. In fact, when I got to the top of Inglewood and at the halfway point, I saw Chris and the kids and had a giant smile on my face and kept saying, I’m awesome! This is so fun! Hooray for running!

And after keeping a good pace for the next three miles, I found myself at the bottom of the mile-long ascent called Lookout Road. Yeah. You literally go uphill for a mile. And that’s after you’ve already run ten miles. And let me digress back to my lack-of-training mantra:  Hey, if you can run nine, you can run 13. Right? No. That’s wrong. Because when I turned the corner to start up Lookout my legs literally stopped working. I had never in my entire life run more than ten miles in one stretch. My body didn’t know how to comprehend what was going on, and when my mind yelled down to my feet that we were about to jog up a mountain, my lower half literally screamed back, NOPE! Not gonna happen.

So I slowed down to a fast walk, stretching my legs to such a long stride that even while walking I was passing some people who were running. And I caught my breath, drank some water and tried not to get defeated. It was okay to walk! I only had three more miles until I was done. I WAS ALMOST THERE!

I got to the top of Lookout, and started moving my legs to a run again on a good downhill. And it felt surreal. My limbs were like jello and I was literally soaking wet with sweat. And then I gutted it out for the next two miles, and they were the hardest two miles I’ve ever run in my entire life. But it wasn’t like anyone around me was feeling good at that moment either. I heard lots of swearing, lots of grunting and lot of panting. There was a giant beast of a man plodding behind me, and whenever I started to slow down on the steady hills of Broadway, he’d shout, HEY BLONDIE! Get it! Don’t stop now! We’re almost there! And I’d groan back, UGH! I hate this! I can’t do this! And he was right on my tail, encouraging me to keep moving my feet.

And I did. And when I turned onto the final cruel hill, we were already downtown and literally had three blocks left. THREE BLOCKS! And halfway up Walnut, I was about to fall over when I saw Paige and Delilah. And my best friend looked at me with such admiration and screamed, YOU GOT THIS! You are awesome! And my final surge of energy kicked in and I kept moving.

And for the last blocks, the crowds of people and other runners were cheering so loudly I couldn’t even hear my own breath. There were people lined up on both sides of the street, ringing cowbells and shouting. I saw Chris and Taylor and Luke waving their arms in the air as I took my final steps of the race. And then I did it. I CROSSED THE FINISH LINE.

And then someone looped a medal around my neck and I made my way into the crowd to find my family and friends. 

I finally did it! And when I regained feeling into my body, all the emotions and exhaustion bubbled up into my throat and I could barely speak. And I cried. Tears of relief, tears of accomplishment and tears of joy. I am so proud of myself. And you better believe I wore that medal constantly for the rest of the weekend. Who runs half-marathons? THIS GIRL! 

About the second best time I've ever had in South Carolina

Earlier this summer, our good friend Robert mentioned to Chris that his family, our family and the Sinclair family should try to get together for a vacation this year. Wait? Did someone say, Vacation? Um. Yes, please.

And being that each family is spread out across the country, the Betts in Northern California, the Sinclairs in Denver and us here in Asheville, we preemptively decreed that this tri-family get together would be a yearly occasion, and because we all live in such awesome places, we should take turns hosting. And since the last time we were all together was two years ago at Robert and Emily’s wedding in Santa Rosa, Chris and I offered up the fabulous mountains of Western North Carolina for this summer’s getaway. But six adults and four kids would be a bit cramped in our house, so I found a perfect rental house about an hour south of town, actually it was just across the South Carolina border, and so last week we all met up at a little piece of heaven called Pentimento. Otherwise known as the best mountain house ever.

And because our lives had all changed so much since our last get together, we all had a ton to catch up on. Eric and Brigitte had gotten married right after we saw them at Robert and Emily’s wedding, and then all three of us had gotten pregnant and delivered boys within three months of each other. Lives had changed drastically. But it took no time to forge into a groove, and it was wonderful to see every single one of these people.

I was especially excited to spend time with Brigitte and Emily. While Chris, Robert and Eric have all been best friends since grade school, Brigitte was in a younger class at Cedar Falls, I was a college add-on and Emily joined us after meeting Robert in San Francisco. But even though the three of us ladies had only spent one previous occasion together, we formed our own friendship through sharing our pregnancy and newborn tragedies and triumphs via WWF and facebook. We were all in the same boat for the late night feedings and non-sleeping episodes, and though we were stretched across three different time zones, we each got to know and respect and root for one another through the awesomeness of social media. I felt very connected to Brigitte and Emily throughout that first year of Luke’s arrival, and I couldn’t wait to give each of them big hugs and meet both Trey and Ashby, whom I felt like I already knew.

So there we were, all gathered to catch-up and watch as our kids introduced themselves to each other. And we were in one the most beautiful places in the country. We knew it was going to be a good time, but that was a gross understatement. It was an amazing time. A weekend I will never forget. Especially the semi-foggy late-night conversations we had on the porch while the wee-ones slept. In fact, the majority of weekend together was spent on that heavenly wrap-around porch. 

And on the lush, adventurous acres surrounding the house.

We did adventure away from Pentimento twice, once to come to Asheville for a kid-free afternoon downtown, and once to take a hike to see, what one ranger described to Eric as, About the second biggest waterfall in South Carolina. Well, after a little research and a trip down memory lane by Emily, we realized it was in fact THE biggest waterfall in the state. But the hike in to see the beauty was a hilly two-and-a-half miles in, and then two-and-a-half miles back. And in theory, it was a no-brainer. We needed to see that waterfall. So the big boys strapped the little boys on their backs, and away we went. 

See how Chris has a lot less pep-in-his-step than Eric and Robert? Well, our little Pookie had four pounds on Trey and about ten on Ashby. And even though Taylor and her four year old legs did pretty awesome, she still couldn’t keep up with the rest of us. And I carried her a few times in to see the falls, and Chris carried her on his back the whole way back to our car. Which meant I had the little big man on my back. And when the four of us emerged from the forest, Chris and I were dripping with sweat and our legs were weak. And it was one of our prouder moments. We did that.

So we hiked enough that day to last us the rest of the weekend, meaning we spent the rest of our time in the mountains chasing kids, catching up, eating home-cooked gourmet meals and laughing harder than we have in a long time. It was awesome, and the three families cohabitated wonderfully. And I can’t wait until next year. 

The school year officially begins

Taylor's first week of pre-K was a huge success. She loves her teacher, her classmates and everything about her preschool. I had decided to keep her at just three days a week for a number of reasons, with the number-one being that next year she'll start kindergarten and will then be going to school five days a week. And that will last forever. So I am going to savor our four school-free mornings a week for another year. 

I did opt to move her from going Monday-Wednesday-Friday, to Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday. It will allow us to have a better groove in the week, and it also means that she can take dance with her classmates on Thursday. I had wanted to start her in some sort of dance program this year regardless, and this works perfectly. For 45-minutes on Thursdays, she will learn ballet and tap, and Woo-Boy! is she excited. Especially after trying on the fancy shoes and knowing that she can wear a ballerina-outfit to school once a week.

And since we are now in the swing of things, it would only make since for the little man to get his first sickness of the school year, which is totally unfair seeing as he doesn't even go to preschool yet.

Poor Booger. He had been fighting a head and chest cold with an awful fever all weekend, and I finally took him to get checked after I caught him tugging at his ears. Yep. Another ear infection. Jeez! And of course he is just so pitiful and clingy while he's sick, which is fine. At 16-months and shot-out-of-a-canon, I'll take my Luke-snuggles wherever I can get them. So needless to say, unpacking has taken a backseat for another week. Oh well. 

Why we will always keep a full gas-can in the garage from here on

One of the things we negotiated into the final contract on our new house from the previous owners was that they included the riding lawn mower. With nearly an acre yard, Chris knew he would need to upgrade from the push-mower he had been using the past nine years at the old house. Plus he was pretty excited to have a new toy.

And the kids were happy about the new tractor mower as well. Luke loved crawling up on the driver’s seat, but would get pretty scared when Chris would start it and ride with him on his lap. The little man always gets a bit sketched with loud noises, especially motors. So once Chris got down to actually wanted to mow, Luke would run inside and hide.

Taylor, on the other hand, was thrilled to ride with Chris while cutting the grass, mostly because she got to wear the big, orange ear muffs and sing at the top of her lungs. She almost treated the tractor as a stage, and I could hear her singing on the farside of the yard while inside the house and over the mower noise. The girl’s got pipes. And she also loves being able to help her Dad steer once in awhile. 

But then after getting used to the noise from a distance, and after seeing how much fun his big sister was having on the tractor, the little man realized that he was ready to help Dad mow too.

Yeah. He REALLY wanted to get on that mower.

And because life can be cruel sometimes, as Chris and Taylor were finishing up the front of the house, the mower ran out of gas right before Luke’s turn. Bummer. But we made it up to him by letting him wear the ear muffs. 

And you can’t feel too bad for him, as I’m sure in about eight years he’s going to be pretty sick of riding that mower every five days in the summer. I mean, that’s why we had kids, right? For the free slave labor. And for the unconditional love and kissable cheeks. 

Welcome to the neighborhood

I have already mentioned that the lovely Scully family lives just up the road from us now, and we’ve also had the pleasure of meeting a handful of our other new neighbors. We are not situated in a sidewalk-laced subdivision. We are actually on a long, dead end road and most of the houses are located on acres and surrounded by lots of trees. In fact, our neighbor across the road has an orchard in their backyard. Within our new yard, we have lots of room to run, and lots of privacy as well. It’s not like we’re bumping into our neighbors, so for people to stop by and introduce themselves, it’s completely out of their way to do so. And so far, I’ve been very pleased with the people that have come by to meet us. And I also respect the people that haven’t. And from what I can determine, we have just moved into a very friendly atmosphere, yet not overly smothering. Which is perfect. When a neighbor drives past, they wave but they don’t stop to chat. And after being hijacked on a daily basis by our last overly-nice neighbor, we are thrilled to have a little more breathing room in our own yard.

And we’ve also acquired many new non-human neighbors in our new house. You would have thought we had moved to another part of the state, as the wildlife is so much more abundant here then in our last neighborhood. We now have hummingbirds and goldfinches, and an obscene amount of wild turkeys.

Before moving, I had encountered flocks of turkeys wandering in yards and crossing the roads while I was on the north side, but I had no idea how many of these haggard, savage birds roam within these neighborhoods. It’s unbelievable. They are everywhere, picking at our grass, sleeping underneath our shady trees and having vicious turkey brawls in our backyard. You think is sounds fun and exotic, but it’s so annoying. They’re not at all scared of humans, and gobble at you as you try to shoo them away. There’s turkey poop all over our back patio, and Ruby has been so sketched out that she’s resorted to hiding under the work bench in our garage.

And it doesn’t help that one of our neighbors, who has yet to introduce himself and looks a lot like Colonel Sanders, feeds the dirty, winged beasts from his hands. FROM HIS HANDS! Every night we spy him walk onto his front porch and toss and feed cut up bread to the dozens of feathered dirtbags who are waiting in his front yard. It’s pretty ridiculous. And Chris is seriously considering buying a slingshot. For the turkeys, not our neighbor.

The kids are still a bit weirded out by the big birds as well, so whenever we leave I always peek out and make sure a flock isn’t waiting for us. And the other day, as we were leaving to head to the pool, I peeked out and saw this:

Awesome.

Now let me note that this wasn’t in my yard, but right off Colonel Sanders front porch. And by the end of their visit, they had knocked over the birdbath and nearly torn down the bird feeder.

And this isn’t our first bear encounter, as we have twice had our trash-bin mangled by the giant animals at night, who tore open all the bags and then proceeded to throw our garbage all over the yard. And the other day I was walking up to Paige’s house with Luke in the stroller to pick Taylor up from a playdate, and a bear walked across the road 50-yards ahead of me. And I immediately wheeled us around and got us into the car to drive the two blocks. That’s scary, y’all. Bears! They can rip your face off!

And because I made such a big deal about it, Taylor has since run in from the porch a few times and squealed, Mama! I just saw a bear and her cubs run from our yard to the woods! And each time I hurry out only to see nothing. And even though I suspect she’s fibbing in order to get everyone worked up, Chris and I are still in total agreement that we’ll put a fence up in the near future to protect the kids outside play area. And the trash-bin. Bears! They’ll steal all your honey!