MyPheme - Up and running!

My essay on "Running with the kids at home" was featured on www.mypheme.com today! If you cruise around their site you'll see they have some downright outrageous to extremely funny on it. (Check out Tami Evans's essay on "expectations" and Anna Lefler's essay on mustaches!)

The Faker, Not So Much

Kendall said he was sick. He’d even acted sick the night before, uninterested in… brownies. Red flag.

Then this morning, he was still claiming not to feel too hot despite having plans after school that hinged on his school day attendance… a playdate. Red flag.

Even as I threw down the gauntlet (no school, no playdate, no Wii), he still was claiming to be sick. Red flag.

What to do, what to do. His chief symptom seemed to be a bad attitude. This could be documented worldwide on Monday mornings.

Then he started with the cough and one watery eye. True, he’d had the crud for the last few weeks. The kind with no beginning or end. He could cough here or cough at school. Either way he would feel about the same. In fact, studies show that children who aren’t really sick actually do fine in school.

I was in a quandary. So I called my husband, the stalwart of truancy laws.

“Sure,” he said. “Keep him home.”

What? I was counting on him to whip us all into shape and into the minivan. The clock was ticking ever closer to 8:50 a.m.

OK, confession: This was hot off a 5-day Thanksgiving Day vacation. The sun was shining and I hadn’t been out for a run in a week. Also, I had a lunch date with a woman who would not spill her drink or refuse to eat the brown edges of her food.

“But he's fine,” I said. This was a role reversal of unknown magnitude.

“Hon, I’m on the roof, gotta go.”

It turned out I was quizzing Tim while he was swinging trusses 20 feet in the air. I’d wasted this distraction on getting Kendall a freebie?

So. I let him stay home.

This involved rescheduling my playdate, his playdate and my run.

So. He was sick until 10:15 a.m., the time it took him to get bored on the couch.

I panicked. I’d been duped. The kid was bandying about ideas like Beyblades, YouTube videos and, blasted, hide-n-seek.

He isn’t sick, I screeched in my head. 

“You aren’t sick,” I screeched at him. “Get in the car!” (This last part included theatrics on par with anything YouTube can dish out.)

But I attacked too soon. My prey was only half out of the hole and his reflexes sharp. Just like that, he darted back in.

I took note. He’d upped his game. Brownies, Wii and playdates were expendable. I was dealing with a child I barely knew anymore.

There was a lot of arguing then, back and forth. Finally, we agreed (I caved). I granted him a stay of execution.

This turned out to be the good part. He curled up on the couch with me and I got in a 15-minute nap when I would have otherwise been blowing my run on triple cheese pizza.

Then, about 1 p.m., it happened. His ear started to hurt. This caused a rise of satisfaction in me. Sick but true. I was right to keep him home, I knew it. An ear infection was in the works. Not only was I a good mom, I was psychic mom.

So, with my motherly glow about me, we headed to the doctor. Who, with a slight pause for emphasis, informed me his eardrum was about to burst. I looked across the shiny floor to my son and, without a flicker, asked, “Jeez, Kendall, why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”

The Kitten: World's Best Pillow

Seriously, I have the world’s best cat. No offense to my other cat, but The Kitten has a lot going for her in the way of personality (if not so much by name).

This cat will follow me all day long anywhere and everywhere. I know. This should be annoying. And in fact I’ve had cats who did this and excised a meow on me every chance they got. I wanted to kill them, or put them outside (one and the same). This cat, however, has an attitude something like a cozy pillow. I mean, when you turn and find a pillow on the couch, are you annoyed? Never. Add a purr and this is The Kitten.

A fat, soft, purring pillow everywhere you turn, most often when you feel a nap coming on. A pillow on four legs. One that spends most of the day flat out on her back, her white belly up to the world. I’ve spayed the one cat on earth who is a perfect density for back and side sleepers.

GTW Editorial: Shopping Strategy

With the holiday season here, it’s safe to say most of these buys are done exclusively by women:

The Emergency Buy
This occurs sometime before midnight Christmas Eve, but not much. It’s when you realize one of your children has one more toy than the others. You can’t bear to think of taking away a toy, storing it in your closet with its red festive wrapping staring at you, waiting to be returned to the store by the evil mother you are.

No, far better to head out to the last store open while the rest of the world is around a kitchen table trying to get out of doing the dishes. You will be standing at a toy store, shelves stripped bare, debating between another Star Wars anything or an Erector set that will make your husband try to catch your eye casually over the children’s heads when they rip it open.

The Revenge Buy
This is when you decide you’ve spent enough on the guy, more than enough on the children and you notice, with no surprise, that there is one gift under the tree with your name on it. One. One. For the very woman who has created Christmas out of a threadbare bank account. One. For the woman who just made a gingerbread house with six hands and zero control. One. For the woman who will try to spread out Christmas morning for at least 15 minutes, carefully unwrapping her gift in sections so that no one notices she has One.

You tell yourself that one present is enough because it is. But there’s that little 9-year-old girl inside of you who is thinking, Are. You. Kidding. Me.

This is when you go out and buy yourself whatever the hell you want.

(Sometimes this is the same year you wake up to a half-dozen gifts you didn’t realize were hidden in the bed of your husband’s pickup truck. He thinks he’s tricky. And he is. But keep whatever you bought yourself anyway.)

The Duplicate Buy
This is when your children say they want Legos. So you get Legos, special ordered from the ends of the earth. You are pleased with yourself, your tenacity, your sleuthing. You can’t wait to see their faces on Christmas morning!

About a week later, your father calls to say he’s bought them Legos. He’s stumbled upon your rare find, in bulk, at Walmart. You bristle. The Legos were your idea. You will keep the Legos and they will open them from you, in front of your very eyes, in the glow of your very own Christmas tree.

That is what you planned and that is what will happen. You tell him this. But he doesn’t hear you because he’s in the middle of a rant about the traffic at the mall the one time he braved it.

The Smurfette Buy
This is when you go out and buy your son a Smurfette figurine. What, why not? You really wanted to get him something he didn’t ask for, didn’t expect, but, most importantly, doesn’t want.

You, on the other hand, have wanted a Smurfette since 1983.

There’s nothing wrong with making sure there are a few presents left in the rumpled wrapping paper on Christmas morning, to be rescued and loved by none other than you.

Bonus: You can also squeeze in a nice lesson on: “It’s the thought that counts,” as you balance Smurfette on the dash of your minivan, tuck her into the pocket of your coat, and perch her on your alarm clock every night.

Here’s to another holiday season! We hope you’ll enjoy the chaos and remember to put a little something for yourself under the tree this year.

Are you expecting?

A friend of mine just posted this awesome entry about being asked if she was expecting when she was not. We all have some version of this story, don't we? If you don't, step off. If you do, let me share mine.

It was maybe 4 years ago and I'd been talked into modeling an outfit from a downtown store at our GTWoman Network Nite.

A) The modeling gig had started out shaky. The boutique had maybe two tops in its long closet-like store that might fit me. I didn't feel large until I ripped the armpit out of one of the shirts in the dressing room. B) I surprised myself, marching on, fearless (and trapped) in the face of a store full of single digit sizes. C) With some elbow grease (literally), we finally found one top, one pair of jeans and one pair of boots to fit my lovely 5-foot-8 frame.

In the end, I felt sexy and wild and carefree - my cleavage was showing! I had cowboy boots on! I had a lovely flowy top that showed my BLACK LACE bra. Hot stuff!

There was lots of ribbing at the actual Network Nite about the peek of my black bra, there were a few drinks ordered, photos taken. Truth be told, we were having a blast. I was thinking of keeping those gorgeous red cowboy boots that would set me back over $200.

So I did my thing, strutted the length of the room, and flashed that bra.

Then, just after stepping out of the beautiful hot spotlight, a woman whose face I can not remember but wish I did now, asked me...

"When are you expecting?"

I was like, '"Expecting? Expecting what? A compliment??? Any minute now, bitch."

So pissed. Still. 

Book excerpt: The Wedding Reception

Lainey entered the wedding reception with high expectations. She was overdue. The year had brought her enough angst to fuel a college kegger. Tonight, she had a babysitter, a hotel room, dancing shoes, and little doubt she would even the score.

She found her name place card in the most delightful of places: at the children's table. A perfect place to be at a child-free party.

And so it was that the youngest generation in attendance, all now in their 30s and 40s, would reap the benefits of becoming the children's table, their kids tucked in for the night and out of sight, their parents on the far side of the room, their hotel within walking distance.

Lainey tasted the promise in her glass of champagne. She sat with Nick to her right and her sister-in-law Jen and cousin Christi and their handsome men to the left. The trio of women had a history of allegiance and, when they saw the lay of the land, they moved the men to one side of the table and themselves to the other. Lainey needed this night, one of solidarity with her sisterhood.

They ate each of the six courses in a polite and normal manner whenever their parents or the bride and groom approached the table. Otherwise, they spent the meal plotting. 

The night wore on slowly at first, the girls growing more and more fidgety in their finery. Lainey wanted to drink more and dance sooner. The line was long at the bar and her patience was short. The music, while on offer, was slow and sedate for mingling.

Lainey wanted to fast-forward things and lose her head a little. Was that too much to ask? she begged the girls, bending her head to theirs at the table.
This was all that Jen needed to hear. After the groomsmen’s toasts and the couple’s first dance, she hatched the escape plan.

“There’s a bar and restaurant downstairs in this building,” she said, pointing to the floor between her sparkly heels. “We’ll go for shots. It will move things along.”

Lainey raised an eyebrow in question to the other guests.

“No husbands, no parents,” Jen said.

She did not hesitate. This covert operation was to be Lainey, Jen and Christi alone.

 “Meet at the elevator in 15 minutes,” Jen's eyes mapped the shortest route for them. “Now spread out.”

“Wait. What shall we tell any inquisitors?” Christi asked, her mother’s eyes burning holes in the back of her head.

“It’s a supply run, for, you know, girl things,” Lainey said.

“Whose time of the month is it?” Jen asked.

“His,” Lainey said, pointing to a groomsman who had mysteriously appeared, ready to lead the runaway trio, his credit card in hand.

At 10:15 p.m., they were at the elevator as planned and, just as importantly, with no one chaperoning them.

Their first shot was tequila, which Lainey had never done.

“Never?” Jen accused.

“Ever?” Christi screeched.

“Never.” Lainey looked at them dead on.

“Us either,” they said. “We’ll ask the bartender for a little how-to.”

The salt and the lime and the tequila went down as instructed and the girls giggled and congratulated each other and paid their buyer a fair amount of attention. This too, Lainey had never done. So this is what it feels like, she thought. Not bad.

Back at the reception, Nick looked at her and smiled. He had done some quicker figuring than his mother and, while unsure of the exact goings on, appeared to approve.

“So, who’s not getting lucky tonight?” It was an aunt, back to cross-reference their story.

“Nick,” the women said in unison. It was as if the tequila had synced them. Also, they had decided in the elevator that, if pressed, this would be their answer.
The aunt finally wandered away but only after the three women made a careful study of boredom and tried not to speak, breathe or even appear alive in the next several minutes. Once the aunt was back to her own table and distracted by Great-Grandma, they all raced to the dance floor, scooping up their men or someone else’s en route.

“Round Two in 15 minutes!” The underground message wove through the dance floor in seconds.

By 10:45, they had another buyer waiting by the elevator and they remained undetected by the older generation. They felt like teenagers again.

“If only we’d get carded,” lamented Christi, double the legal age, as she did a shot of vodka.

The bartender was happy to see them back and happier yet that their crowd had grown in size by the third escape. It seemed unlikely that they would find another groomsman to throw down $60 for round three, but they, in fact, did.
This time it was Southern Comfort. Whiskey was another first for Lainey. But she didn’t admit it this time, because this time she didn’t care. The shots and champagne from before were doing their thing.

By the time they made their way back to the reception, the supply runs were being deemed innovative, historic even. In the elevator they named themselves after the last shot and became the “Dirty Girl Scouts."

Back upstairs, their manly buyers were enjoying the show and the dance floor was hopping. Their husbands, it seemed, were content with watching from afar and awaiting the result of the escapes, all in due time.

Lainey tried to restrain herself but found she had to jump on her brother-in-law and get a piggyback ride around the dance floor after the third shot. This was met with rousing approval from the Girl Scouts.

By the fourth round with Jäger, the mothers and aunts were completely perplexed, the husbands were apprised of the scheme and all parties on the inside were happy.

There was a second piggyback involved and a photo booth moment that, in the light of day, would be evidence used to disprove the story that any "supplies" were needed by any one of the girls.

By the time the DJ announced "last song," Lainey was happy, her hair was a mess and Nick was holding her up. She liked the warm air that met them as they spilled out into the streets of downtown Grand Rapids with her sister-in-law, her cousins and their buyers in tow. And she knew that while morning would not be pretty, tonight was.

It was a night that she needed, when there was nothing more in the world than new dresses and bare shoulders, friends pressed one against the other, squeezing into a full elevator or through a door two at a time.

Going anywhere and nowhere, for no reason at all. None. Except to see what would happen next, together.

Motherhood: Home Alone

It’s sad but true. I feel safer staying home with my two children than I do staying home alone. Translation: The first and third graders are my protection.

But they are finally old enough to go off to deer camp for a night or two… leaving me alone. Very alone. And here’s what last Saturday night looked like for me:

No kids, no Star Wars, no Beyblades. Freedom? Wrong. It felt more like a setup. It was too quiet. I could see the carpeting and the entire length of the dining room table. No one was screaming. No one was accusing me of backtalking. Someone was putting me on, no doubt. What better way to get killed than to be relaxing in your own home?

I was on edge, waiting for nightfall. I drifted around the house. There was plenty TO do, but it felt wrong spending, what might be my last night on earth, on dishes or laundry. No, it had to be something fantastic, remarkable. So I got crazy — I rented a movie, ordered a pizza and drank a forbidden Mountain Dew.

This felt quite awesome for the first stretch. I felt like a college kid again, illicit, fat and happy on the couch. I watched Three’s Company for the first time in 10 years. Two episodes. I felt reckless and safe.

I grew antsy before long though, the feeling of relaxation foreign and mighty on my conscious. But I persevered. I dug my heels in. I watched, I ate, I tied into a Lifetime movie. Look at me go! Then. It took a digger. The movie turned out to be about a guy who stalks his girlfriend. And just when she thinks he’s gone, she goes to bed to find him sitting there. Waiting.

This, as you can imagine, brought the party to a screeching halt. Every door in the house shifted in its frame and something scampered across the basement floor. I found myself a corner of the couch, papered it with cold sweat and fear, and watched the remainder of the movie, and the back door, with as much courage as I could.

Well, with that raging success, I figured a second movie was in order. This movie turned out to be about alcoholism. A Will Ferrell movie with a moral theme? Major disappointment. But I pressed on, watching the character fall into a daze, sitting in his chair, alone and shaking, much like myself.

And that’s when things got out of hand.

Suddenly I noticed that my left arm was numb. OMG, heart attack. I leapt from the couch, shaking my arm and patting down my chest. Panic rose. There was no one to help me, no 7- or 9-year-old paramedics on hand. I was completely, utterly alone. I would die here in a pizza and peanut butter stupor.

Then I lay down on the couch. Yes, I had ridden hard that day on the trails. That’s right, SO maybe it was like tennis elbow, but of my entire biking arm. It was just overtired, overused. I lay there and waited for the arm to reappear on my nerve database.

Then I discovered this: The left side of my face was numb too. A stroke! Sheer terror walked in as I slapped my face a few times and smiled repeatedly, making sure my mouth moved. I could have gone to the mirror but instead I stayed on the couch, helpless, no children here to save me, again. I closed my eyes and waited for the inevitable.

Just then, I saw it was 10 p.m. Finally, I had killed enough time to go to bed. I slipped under the covers with my hammer on the nightstand and closed my eyes. Now all that was left was another eight hours of darkness. What I wouldn’t give for a couple tough, dangerous little kids to cuddle up with and keep me safe for the night.

I hate running

I did it. I started a "I hate running" FBook page. We've got 15 members as of today. I giggle every time someone else "likes" it. Let me tell you why I hate it (and, if pressed, why I love to hate it):

1. I can't find my pace. In the first 100 steps, I reach a point of oxygen deprivation that makes me look down at my watch and see that my pace is, gloriously, twice that of my norm. It takes another 100 steps or so to convince myself that it's worth slowing down so that I can make it to the end of the drive.
 
2. Cars that pass too close. There is no shoulder on the road where I run, so I try to hold my lane as long as I can. (This would fall under the "love" category of running. Who doesn't like to feel this brassy?)

When the cars take the time to slow up and go into the far lane, I offer a wave, Thanks for not killing me! When they don't move over and instead pass within a breadbox's width of taking me out, I throw my hands up in exasperation at their rearview mirror (which, incidentally, just parted my hair). If I'm alone, I do this after they've rounded a corner.

3. Gangsters out for a stroll. The last 2 times I've been out, I've been greeted by scary men. Granted, they are probably the nicest guys ever. But the first nicest guy ever was parked in the woods, in a white undershirt, in an old white car. And this is the kicker: He didn't wave at me. He didn't do anything. This is the first move of killers everywhere.

Then today's gangster was walking toward me on the road. I thought, I should start running now (I was hot off the first 100 step blowout) and I met up with him at thrice my usual pace. I saw he was walking with a radio headset thingy on (camo! first clue), but here's what set my radar off with a clang: He was in blue jeans. This screams no purpose at all, out for a joy walk, enjoying a pretty fall day, who knows what he might do next? You can see why I was scared.

4. Keeping up the facade. If you take a single day off running, or a week in my case, it's sure that the world (minimally, your friends) will drive by and notice your pace when you decide to re-enter the addiction of the sport. The ones who don't run will think  And she calls that running? and the ones who do run will think She took yesterday off.

Peak2Peak - 4th place! And my nemesis.

I raced Peak2Peak this weekend at Crystal Mountain! I was hoping (praying) for Top 10 (I was 12th last year), so imagine my face when I saw the results... and I was 4th in my group. Before I could help myself, I leaned over to the guy next to me and was like, Do you see this sh!t?

Then I tried very hard not to boogie around in celebration in the room full of manly men and their tight pants.

But if you are wondering how it went with my nemesis, this should answer your question:

Let's just say I've got my work cut out for me in 19 days...

But it was a great race - even though we woke up to pouring rain and 25mph winds that blew our bikes sideways at the top of the mountain!

At the start this year, I got out in front of the pack - totally new for me. I've spent many a race in the back comparing shades of pink and cuts of women's jersey. I was shocked to find that if these women up front slammed into a rock on the trail or took a turn too wide, they let out a yelp of profanity. Did swearing make them faster? I wondered, marveling at a training tip I could adhere to at last, and swiftly. Yes, it appeared so.

Soon, though, I fell off the lead pack and it was down to me and my bike and just gutting it out. And this is when the crisis always begins.

Confession: I always go though a mid-race crisis. I love the start of a race, I'm flying, we're all together, tearing it up, duking it out, kinda like a party on wheels. Then, reality sets in. I start to realize I might pass out, I can't breath, and there is no way I'm going to keep up with this group I've been trying to hang with.

And so, the party is about over. I have about 20 miles left to do and, if history repeats itself, I will do a good chunk of it alone.

Then I have this dangerous epiphany: I could be warm (dry, toasty, breathing) right now. Then I start to commit to a new series of goals: That I will never race again, that I will not speak to my biking friends, that I will find a hobby that doesn't involve Hammer gel.

But then I land at the finish line and there's a bunch of goofy biker friends with crooked helmets, all happy and tired and dirty and cheering me on. Crisis averted.

Here's the data/route if you are curious on what the race entails:

Here's more info on the P2P race if you want to go for it next year! And check out Crystal Mountain for a great place to ski this winter and/or for a skiing staycation!

My secret (training) weapon: A nemesis

My training this year is better than any other. It's because I've found the perfect training weapon: A nemesis.

It all started a month before last year’s Iceman when I met and rode a few times with a guy we'll call "Jake." Sure, I liked him well enough when we met. We were about the same speed and skill and had the same working schedule, so we found that we could ride together (this proved handy for me, as I fear the woods, dark and bears). And while we had strictly different tastes in music, I let it go, for a new biking friend is hard to come by.

But it wasn't until later, riding neck-n-neck in the Iceman, that I grew to like him well enough to declare war.

The Race
At the Iceman start line last year, we nodded coolly to each other and ate our Gu, looking about all-friendly-like. I could see by his casually crafted stance that it was time to get down to business.

In the crush of the start, I lost sight of him. I didn’t know if he was ahead of me or behind me. I started biking hard, worried, tense. Then, at the first road crossing, my husband Tim let me know he was ahead of me but not by much.

This, surprisingly, gave me the advantage. I found my pace, I conserved, I schemed. I spent the race creeping up and picking spots to sprint, keeping him out of sight but within reach. (Translation: I told myself if I ever saw him again, I would pass him going wide open.)

As the race wore on, my plan came together with just a few miles to go. To my shock, there on the hill before me, sat a yellow jersey creeping up a hill. I’d spent the race preparing for this moment. He, on the other hand, had spent the race in an all-out effort, not knowing if I was close or too close.

I looked at my odometer. Yes, two miles to go. Could I maintain a sprint for that long? Possibly. Could I resist passing him now that he was in my sights? Never. 

As I came up behind him, I greeted him with a jovial, “Why, there you are!”

This, friends, was the wrong thing to say.

It was like putting him in turbo mode. While he was bathed in sweat and busting every vein in his neck, he found, with those four little words, superhuman strength.

The race, after 2 hours and 45 minutes was on.

I crested the hill ahead of him and took off, only to have him shoot past me on the downhill, his fear of death slightly less than his fear of losing. On the next hill, I caught him and outclimbed him again, much to my delight and his horror. I was feeling very, very friendly at this point. We’re all just friends here, right? No hurry to get ahead of one another, as long as I was in front. But the top of the hill turned the game again and he ripped past me.

This went on for several treacherous minutes, up and down, passed and chased. We could hear the crowd of the finish line screaming in the distance. We were pushing and praying, each hill harder than the last.

Then, in the final stretch, he pulled out his cape and took off, gaining the lead. And never looked back.

17 seconds. 17. This is all he had on me. 17.

And while there was plenty of ribbing at the finish line, the unspoken hung in the air: Next year, there would be blood. And I had, without even realizing it, found the secret training weapon.

I urge you to also find someone who is about your speed, skill and temperament to train with. It helps too if they aren’t totally annoying. To have a perfect training partner/nemesis, there are some conditions that must be met:

1.     He must not be a woman and/or your age. By this I mean, find someone who isn't directly competing with you. This person may be in the men's class, may be 10 years older or 10 years younger, but definitely not in your exact class or age group in a race. This makes the self-inflicted competition "just for fun." Kinda.

2.     He must not be your husband. He can be someone else’s husband, but definitely not yours. This means all outings are completely free of laundry that is folded but sitting in the basket for the third day in a row.

3.     He must be your speed. Too slow and you will feel all she-man and showy when you tear past him on a straightaway. This, along with spandex pants, will erode your femininity over time. Too fast and you will start thinking of sabotage.

4.     He must never ride more miles than you in any two consecutive weeks. He will prove himself quite useful to you in this way. The couch won’t be nearly as tempting when you see his bike strapped to the back of his truck in the school parking lot at morning drop-off.

5.     He must be out to kill you. This means he will try to beat you on all the hills during training. This makes a trail ride go much faster, keeps you guessing and also, because of #3, means he will only succeed every other time, thereby keeping his goal of killing you firmly out of reach and, therefore, your training on target.

6.     He must want it as bad as you do. Will he post his Garmin to Facebook later in the day? Maybe. Will you? Of course. There’s posturing and name calling and death threats. Again, more of the good stuff I told you about.

These are just a few tips for keeping your training honest this year. There’s no better way to push your limits than to have yourself some friendly yet fierce competition with a nemesis. And with the Iceman less than 4 weeks away, things are getting heated. No one is going out on the trail without someone else taking note. Who will win this year? It’ll be down to seconds, I’m afraid. (By this I mean, him coming in second to moi.)

The pleasure of a fall day

I love this time of year when our Michigan maple forests are turned on end. It’s like being able to walk in the trees. Their beauty, having spent the entire summer decorating the sky, comes down at last for mere humans to revel in, a pool of color.

I spend fall days looking for reasons to go out in the woods and with two small boys, I don’t have to look far. They swing on the wooden set out back, the scuffed oval of dirt under each swing covered, then cleared of leaves each afternoon. Our gray kitty watches from one side of the swings, our calico steps too close and I shoo her away.

“Mom, we need a pile of leaves to jump in,” Nelson yells, his perfect oval face swinging above the oval of dirt. He pumps his legs hard, this, his first fall where no underdog is needed to get going. The freedom of moving himself through the air, high enough to kick the maple tree branches above the swingset, lifts him with mischief.

“Make two piles, mine first!” Kendall is never far behind a good idea and always on top of taking the lead.

I rake two piles, first Nelson’s, then Kendall’s, pulling the yellow and brown leaves of the pin cherry trees into the pile, their thin black branches falling each year with their leaves, creating a pokey, dirty start. But they always come first and the boys’ impatience, and mine too, is too much. They have their first jumping in the cherry leaves, with the brownish pink of cherries smushed into their clothing. I overlook this, the laundry detail. The sight of the first tiny yellow leaves on the bright green grass outweighing it.

Then, in a few days, the others start to fall. The wide cupping leaves of maples, their colors sharper, red, yellow or orange, or a combination of all three, paper the yard. I let these fall a day or two, their fat happy colors covering the grass until the boys howl that their piles could be twice as big now.

Then I rake them, the large leaves making the pile three, four times the size of those with the delicate cherry leaves. The maple leaves cooperate with the boys and fluff into the air when they land and settle back down on their heads in welcome. It’s like showering them with happiness. And I love that my boys take this for granted, this abundance of Mother Nature, this thrill of leaves and sunlight and grass and crisp air filling their lungs. This I can share with them, this pleasure of a fall day.

Book Excerpt: Building a Home

Here, an excerpt from my novel and work-in-progress, Monday Night Bike Club:

They built their house, officially, in the middle of nowhere. 


They spent hours after work, after college classes, before breakfast and during lunch working on the house. It was his idea, a terrible one she thought. 

Her dad had looked at Lainey and said, “Your Aunt Emily built her own house too.” 

“Great,” she said.

“It took them 8 years,” he answered.


They were 22 and 23, so young and foolish and idealistic, she sees now what her dad was thinking. They had set about it with a $20 how-to book from the little store downtown. They dubbed it “The Bible,” the closest to religion they’d ever come. Nick had worked at a lumber store for five years by then, spent all his working hours with men building houses and garages and kitchens. 

Lainey wasn’t a natural at the job and about a month into the job nailed an entire wall flat to the floor. She'd spent an hour measuring and marking the length of each board with a fat carpenter pencil, balancing the boards on the saw and cutting a smooth edge. Each time she cut she imagined a blade taking her arm off. 

GTW Editorial: Girls Night Out Imminent

Here's fair warning: A Girls Night Out is imminent. You might consider attending GTWoman's Ultimate Girls Night Out, but mostly we recommend that you attend any GNO you can get your hands on and watch the magic unfold.

While there's plenty of magic that can happen at a GNO, we mostly applaud the magic that happens outside the official agenda, the kind you can't get unless you commit to something different than your usual Friday night.
Case in point:

The Commitment: Kids, work, family, men. All fair game for your Friday night attention. But there's something entirely decadent about marking a big fat circle on your calendar and declaring out loud that you will be leaving the house, leaving your man, leaving work on a certain night... that just happens to be the same night your girlfriends are making the same noises about.

When a slight hesitation travels through the house, you'll sense your family's surprise that Momma is making a solo plan. When this happens, you will feel a shock of your own. It's then that you realize how long it's been since you've taken a night to yourself. They've forgotten you do such things, that you own heels, that you wear things in those holes in your ears.

Motherhood: The Yoda Song

The 1985 Yoda Song started it. If you have kids who love Star Wars, be sure to introduce them to Weird Al Yankovic's song all set to the "Lola" song. (Which is, unfortunately, catchy.) The kids played it over and over. And then they asked for more music like it. So. I've taken it one step further and started using music to send subliminal messages.

Exhibit A: Weird Al's wildly popular "Eat It" song. I suggest you put this on the CD you make them but make sure to react to it as if it was a mistake. You do not want them to think you like this song, nor that you quote it at every meal you serve them.

The bike ride from hell (a.k.a. Log Jumping)

So. The invite came in from the boys to go biking. Last fall I was all about running around with the boys. I was at the peak of my biking fitness (a.k.a. when I'm least addicted to peanut butter bars) and willing to chase them through the woods.

Yesterday, however, was a different story. I could smell it in the air - they were all out to kill each other.

I saw the three of them looking each other up and down, weighing the cost of their summer beer. It appeared, if I let my mind go there, that they wanted me along for one reason only: So they could take breaks no one claimed they needed while they waited for me.

I was right. I spent most of the ride chasing them, my lack of miles clocked becoming painfully obvious. I ran all summer but 30 minutes trudging up and down Reynolds Road, turns out, doesn't do jack for a 90-minute bike ride on the tight, bumpy single track they had unearthed.

Yes, they had a new trail "still under development" to show me. And yes they made it sound delicious and exclusive. And yes I was intrigued. I wanted in.

Alas.

The trail was half the width of my handlebars and shrouded in saplings and pine boughs nearly all at eye level. At some points I was far enough behind that not only couldn't I see the boys, for a few fretful moments, I couldn't see the trail either.

This is when the log jumping started. The first tree across the trail nearly made me stop. But a quick look around and I figured there was no one around and that the fall would be clean, a widening in the trail just enough for a woman on her new bike to lay down in.

To my surprise and statistical upset, I cleared it. Then, a second log appeared in the trail, slightly smaller than the first. SO I braved it. Rather, I marched all over that bad boy. I hooped in joy. Of course, none of the boys witnessed my miracle on wheels.

But the third and final log came near the end when I was weak and scratched and trying, bravely, to pretend that I still liked them all. It was also when one of the boys decided he would fall in line behind me, hang in the back with the log jumper. Imagine my surprise to find that this third log was resistant to my attempts.

It seemed, geometrically, that I had the height and speed to clear it. Both cosine and tangent angles showed it to be true. But a good-sized log only needs an eyewitness to have a little fun.

And so it was that the log calmly grabbed the front tire of my bike and stopped it. In that second it ejected me up off my seat, forward, over the handlebars.

... But just when I thought it was all over, my bike came shooting back under me and proceeded down the trail as if nothing had happened. The cry of fear (disbelief? joy?) sounding from my riding partner behind me proved, however, that plenty had happened.

For starters, I wasn't sure if I was coming or going. One minute I was eating a log, the next I was pepping along handily at 8 or 9 mph with tree branches slapping my face.

As I carried on, a few other things became clear: My shoes had not unclipped, therefore elongating all the muscles in the front of my ankle (their existence news to me) to a snapping point. It was also then that I realized an adrenaline rush can and will cloud your vision, during which you will hook a tree root with your pedal and get a second taste of death in quick succession. And, finally, I realized the debacle had taken the greatest thing of all: my newly minted log jumping attitude.

It wasn't long after that that I convinced (begged) these killers to head back, save their damsel in distress and call it a day. And when they did, I was never so thankful to see a smooth dirt road in all my life, to hit a nice cruising speed for the ride home, a little cool down in order.

Note to self: Never will a group of three men concede to a cruising speed. If the trail opens up wider than their handlebars, they will see to it that they down each other as often as possible the entire length.

Motherhood: Running with kids at home

I've started running, something I swore I’d never do. Why? I like the way I feel when I roar back into the house in the morning with the taste of sweat in my mouth, my tank sticking to my back, grit on my face and a blue bandana flopping on my head.

And that it's a workout I can do with no babysitter needed. Sure, working out with the children underfoot isn’t ideal. But when they're out of school for the summer, you need to get creative. Here's a few tips for when you want to get exercise done and over without a lot of pre-planning and babysitter procuring:

First, put the kids in a hypnotic state: It's time to relax your rules on Wii playing. I can only run for 30-40 minutes straight. This is barely a good run at Mario Galaxy II. The children will still be arguing over who gets to be Luigi by the time you are done.

Book Excerpt: Birth of son

Here, an excerpt from my novel and work-in-progress:

Her mother had bought her a fluffy red robe with yellow and brown and white kitties embroidered on the sleeves and back. She would wear it as she paced the hospital floors, waiting for her first son to be born. She would wear it later, when the doctor said her baby was sick and they would take him down the hall, without her.

“It’s a boy,” the doctor had said and put the lumpy mess on Lainey’s chest.

And for a few precious seconds she looked down at the child who was not immediately adorable as she’d been promised, and fumbled and cried and tried to figure out what to do with the little boy.

Lainey and her husband touched his skin for the first time and bent in to cup his soft head and squeeze his smashed toes. In their inventory, it took them a moment to realize the room had become quiet. And, in the next moment, frantic.

The baby’s face was turning red, then dark, then blue. Lainey thought this was normal for a moment, a moment when the normalcy of everyday life was replaced by stirrups and IVs and pushing.

But indeed this blue stage wasn’t right, and they scooped the baby away. They saw what she didn’t and took him, without asking and without telling, and did what needed doing.

GTW Editorial: Child's Play

Glorious summer is upon us and that means only one thing: We must re-master working at home with the children as they test the strength of the house’s foundation around us. This is our 8th year of surviving such harrowing times. And these are the ways we get by, especially when the authorities aren’t watching:

Fact: They are bored by Day 3 of summer vacation.
The fix: Shaving cream. Kandy brought this up at a Girls Night Out and was surprised to find it was shocking and ground-breaking.

3 tips for new runners

I started running in half-mile stretches, then 1 mile stretches. And I hated it. That was in March, April and May. Now it’s the end of June. And I can finally run 3 miles. And I kinda like it, despite broadcasting to the world that I never would.

I thought running would come easy for me, that I would be running that far much sooner. But it took 3 months, a lot of bitching, and these 3 tips from my runner friends to get me here:

1.    Slow down. I was trying to run under 10 minute miles because I could. But I could only run 1 mile at that speed, then I would do a lot of over watch-checking and under distance-guestimating trying to push into mile 2. I was spent. So I slowed down to 10:30-45 min miles. And suddenly I could go longer, find a rhythm, breathe. Granted, this isn't racing speed but it's satisfying nonetheless. A friend told me to concentrate on going longer before going faster.

2.     Don’t give yourself permission to stop. This is what I was doing – bargaining every mile. OK, if I run 1 mile, I can walk half a mile, then run again. The curse of that is that the second mile is just as hard, if not harder because you have to start again and find your rhythm again. I was really only prolonging the misery.

My friend Cassy told me, "If you give yourself permission to stop, you will." She said this during our first run together. Wherein she took off the down the trail, didn't look back and didn't ask me how far or how fast I wanted to go. She ran slow and sure and I was shocked to find, with Cassy's funny stories leading me down the trail and not checking my watch every tenth of a mile, that I could run 2 miles on the trail, then, behold, 3.

Sidenote: Misery you say? When does that go away, you'd like to know? I'm not sure it does. But it’s a delightfully accessible sport – you can do it for a little or a long time, on any terrain, at any time of the day or night. You feel like puking a bit every time but you always seem to start out optimistically, every run a wide open opportunity. And I like that it’s so hard that baby steps feel huge.

3.     Start small. In direct conflict to point 2. But it’s how I got up to 3 miles – by starting at half-mile intervals and tacking on a half mile more when I could. This also helps avoid injury by not doing too much too fast. My problem was that I was doing the intervals and scared to make the jump. I did the run/walk intervals without thinking of pushing past them. Now I’m at the unbelievable point of running 3.5 miles, my latest goal. Oh and I started running the big mofo hill on my road. I’m feeling crazy!

Motherhood: Four wheeler love

The four-wheeler is like a fifth member of the family around here. We ride it almost every day, the earth holding us up lap after lap as we wear trails in the field and through the trees.


Riding the four-wheeler is one of the few things the boys and I can agree upon. They seem to have outgrown the trains, the Legos they would rather build by themselves, and the soccer games have started to involve a lot of me getting hit in the face with a ball going the speed of light.

But the four-wheeler remains timeless. We've ridden it all winter long, taking turns getting it stuck in the snow, and, now that spring is here, I can't wait to ride it without looking like a very large woman (under layer upon layer of clothing) with a very small head.

These are the things they (we) love about it:

The jumps, of course. Wait, don't worry. The jumps are kid-sized. Mostly.

Working Moms

What’s not to love about working and being a mom? There are lots of perks like overgrown shapeless hair from non-appointments at the salon, kitchen floors that look fine until you cross them barefoot at 2 a.m. to visit a wailing child and return to your bed with enough crumbs on your feet to build a piece of toast, and footstools that are covered in such intricate Lego formations that no one is welcome to relax in your house again.

If your home doesn’t look like this and you work and have children and aren’t lying, we hate you. You are not real, you came with batteries, the rest of us came with short tempers.

So here are things we’d like to say are PERFECTLY OK for mothers everywhere:

Saturday morning

It’s Saturday morning and they have nowhere to be. Lainey turns to her husband and curls around his broad, warm back. He will sleep through it. She rests her cheek on his back until it starts to sweat. She rolls away then, wishing he’d wake up but not wanting to be the reason. She looks out the window, hoping the sunshine of spring will be there. Today it is not, rain is dripping off the eaves again.

She lies in the bed and tries to fall asleep but it won’t happen. She is already listening for her sons to cross the kitchen floor on their tiny feet. Nick rolls onto his back. She slips into his crook and with his eyes still shut, he squeezes her to show he feels her there. Then his crook grows hot and she rolls away from him, knowing he hates to be too warm.

She returns to her side of the bed and waits. The boys will wake soon. It is 6:30 a.m. Like clockwork, she hears Warren creak open the bedroom door of the blue bedroom. He will sometimes walk so quietly that he arrives beside the bed and startles her awake. Today she is one step ahead of him, which won’t last long.

He is sleepy and warm and wearing boxers half the size of his father’s. He is 8. Soon he won’t seek her out in the morning. Already, she can feel the cuddles growing shorter, his legs longer, his elbows bonier, pushing her away, not wanting to snuggle her as much nor as long.

This morning she pulls back the blankets and he slides in. She feels relief that today isn’t the day he is done with it. She kisses him on the cheek, the pillow creases there on his face. His chest is smooth, although he’s already checking for hair on it. She pulls him to her in a hug and he hugs back. Nick sleeps.

“How much longer till we can get up?” Warren asks.
“No Wii,” Lainey answers.

Four-wheeler therapy: A true story (don't tell dad)

Here's a piece I wrote the second summer after losing my mom. It's a true story, but don't tell Dad.

Four-Wheeler Therapy

Pearl’s sister broke out the cherry wine somewhere between the juice boxes and bologna sandwiches.

“Dare we?” Sherry asked.

Pearl hated wine. So did her sister.

Pearl cut a sandwich in half for her 3-year-old while sending a shocked yet pleased look over his head to Sherry.

“Let’s just open this wine and try to learn to like it,” Sherry said, unearthing a corkscrew from the back of her junk drawer.

They were both 33-years old and neither adept at cracking open a bottle of wine.

“We’re pathetic,” Pearl said, snapping the cork off half in the bottleneck, half out.

“Give it here.” Sherry poked the remainder of the cork into the bottle and watched it float before pouring two glasses in plastic wine glasses. Sherry’s was neon pink, Pearl’s grassy green.

“Cheers!” The plastic thudded in an unsatisfying way. Their four children, (two to each) cousins, dirty from running in the sprinkler, tan from a summer of no shirts and no school, ran in the yard. Their sandwiches spoiled, untouched, in the 90-degree heat.

This is when the giggles started. Neither of them could tolerate more than a few swallows of the sour cherry wine. Pearl spit hers, with much fanfare, into the burning bush at the edge of the deck. From their chaise lounges, they laughed.

“What’s so funny, Mom?” asked Sherry’s oldest. He was the ringleader at age 7 and the self-designated etiquette police.

“Nothing, honey, nothing.”

“Just boozing on a Thursday afternoon,” Pearl whispered in a stifled giggle. The sisters had, until this very afternoon, lived a prim and proper life. They’d grown up in a little town, never got very drunk or very pregnant until they got married, lived less than 5 miles from the home they’d grown up in, had good jobs, good kids, good families. They’d never dreamed of getting drunk on a Thursday afternoon. 

Exercise headaches

Got home from ALA this morning at 5:30am after driving all night. Slept two hours, unpacked, dozed in a patch of sunlight on the bed while the kids blew all their webkinz cash and ran wild. Then forced myself up to do run/walk in sunshine.

Ran 10-minute miles but have to alternate between run/walk to keep from getting an exercise headache. Anyone have any advice on these? I take Excedrin Migraine, which helps, but would love to get off the medicine!!!

Check out the cool data I get from my new Garmin watch from Brick Wheels now: http://connect.garmin.com/activity/76534191

So interesting to monitor heart rate with my speed and time!

GTW Editorial: Forced Acquisitions

So it came to be, that I finally couldn't make do with my layout software any longer. The pressure was too great, my casual but constant requests for others to "save down" too much for any woman to bear.

And as dominoes are known to do, it turned into the Month of Upgrades. First it was the software. But when Creative Suite 5 (braggity, brag) choked my ancient computer, I realized I was on the threshold of a Forced Acquisition.

This didn't fall upon me in horror. Oh no, this was a delightful turn of events. My hands were tied. A new computer had to be had. I had no choice. And the hunt began.

Overkill in one sport? The power of cross training

For the last few years I’ve biked nearly every day of the summer. But my progress has ground to a halt. Each summer it happens because a) I get comfortable doing the same routine, b) I like comfortable and I like routine, and c) my body grows accustomed to my biking and therefore is unimpressed with it.

This season I'm tuned into the huge benefits of cross training. I like to think that cross training will activate some superhuman powers and relieve me of this winter thickening.

I'm thinking it will go something like this: Biking up and down Crystal Mountain until the gears give out. Running up and down the road until I keel over. Then some strength training with my friends until someone gets hurt. I think it's gonna be the best summer ever.

The pros say cross training is the way to go: it keeps your body guessing, keeps boredom at bay and keeps you in need of the latest garb and gadgets for a bunch of new sports. What's not to love?

1. Pick 3 sports. Try to do cardio, strength training and something that sounds credible but is really a treat, like Pilates. Let’s face it - you aren't ever going to be in a Pilates race and therefore it's a luxury, what you make of it is all that matters, your time, your pleasure. Make sure to carve this time out and protect it fiercely from any naysayers who only wish they, too, could cross train.

Head over wheels for running

I had the treat of guest blogging at Michigan Runner Girl, check it out!

Here's a blurb:

I’m a mountain biker. I’m a skier. I’m a writer, a mother, a cat lover. Oh, and I might, when pressed by a polite friend, be called a runner too. But… I’m slow. And I don’t go far. And I hate it.

So, why do I do it? Because it gets me from ski season to bike season. Sure, I could spin like all my other biker friends and avoid all the grief of running, but I don’t. And here’s why: Read more at http://michiganrunnergirl.com/falling-head-over-wheels-for-running/

My bike dresser

I created a Bike Dresser last fall - I emptied an old dresser in the basement and put all my bike stuff in it. It's been AWESOME to be able to find everything in one little spot. My shoes, my helmet, gloves, tools, everything went in the drawers. I am also putting my ski goods in it for the summer.

This dresser was nothing but a junk collector. I had thought its prime had passed but I have bestowed upon it the glory of holding all the things I love. I encourage you to go to your basement (or your parents') and resurrect some lost piece of furniture with drawers that barely open and fall off the track that's witnessed your childhood dramas.

Things I emptied out of the dresser: a photo in which my hair was taller than my face, a wicker basket lacquered with dust, and a Turd Bird from Montana circa 1985.

I kept the Turd Bird.

Today I'm heading out on the roads again but get the treat of having the company of a friend! I hate road riding because we can't talk as easily bc of traffic. But the sun is shining and there's a little score to settle from last year when Jake beat me by something like 17 seconds in the Iceman.

GAME ON.

Mom's Lasagna Recipe

My mom's lasagna recipe is the best! Here it is for those who might like to try this simple recipe - it takes about 30 mins to prep, 1 hr to cook. My modifications are - I don't use the blender, I use a whisk. And I don't let the meat sauce simmer for 30 mins, more like 10-15. This is a crowd pleaser and makes you look like a totally fab cook. I hide behind this fail proof recipe whenever I cook for a crowd!!!

Motherhood: Hide-n-Seek serious 'round here

Hide-n-Seek is a serious affair at our house. Because of our shortage of closets and trapdoors, we’re forced to play at night, lights off, amongst slippery shadows and mounting paranoia.

One bedroom is usually home base with the lights on, casting just enough light to traverse by, nothing more. I encourage you to try this deadly style of Hide-n-Seek.

The ground rules: Typically only one person hides (usually one brave parent, sometimes two scared children pair up). The rest of the family must seek as a team. Each time you must use a hiding spot never before used in the entire history of mankind. Once found, all children and gamely spouses must be chased back to home base. Timing comes with experience, but if you can launch in the nanosecond before they find you, you’ve scored.

Skate skiing

Snow had fallen so delicately on the ski trail that it appeared as if the groomer had never passed, the crystals falling into the grooved corduroy as if hand-placed every half-inch to fill in the pattern. She was only a month into skate skiing. 

Just two weeks ago, she had stood on the trail, barely able to push her body, skis and anger over the slight hill in front of her. A hill so slight it was barely perceptible to the naked eye. She had spent the last half hour falling, slipping, trying, failing. She had finally turned on her husband in anger, “Why am I doing this? I am not a natural at this. I suck! This sucks!” Hot, surprising tears filled her eyes and she looked away, embarrassed. Her husband clicked the tips of his skis together and said nothing. It was Jan. 19, the fourth anniversary of losing her mother. He knew what sucked.

Book Excerpt: Mother's Class Ring

Here's an excerpt from my book!

When she found her mother's class ring, she reacted physically, a jump in her heart, in her hand as she reached for it. It was in the jewelry box, tucked in the velvet folds like all the other rings, but Lainey had never seen it before. Her mother had never mentioned it, never told the story of the day she received it, never showed it to her girls in all the years since 1965. Lainey slipped it on her own finger, her right hand, a counterpart to the wedding ring on her left, gifts from the two people she’d built her life around, with and for.

She rubbed the translucent Mother of Pearl stone and the Newberry High School emblem set upon it. She felt daring, like she was looking where she shouldn’t. This ring had seen her mother through her first boyfriend, her first heartbreak, and, later, the night she snuck out in Grandpa’s truck and stripped all its gears.
The ring held on during meeting Lainey’s father, loving him and marrying him. Then been set aside sometime between raising children with him, fighting with him, caring for him and some four decades later, saying goodbye to him; some days wanting to and, finally, having to.

View at the Shop

With the burn of a new year upon us, many of us will be entering the unknown — the inside of a bike/ski/fitness shop. Most of you dread the thought of entering the entrails of a shop built of muscle, sweat and testosterone. We'll admit it; the intimidation factor is high.

But we encourage you to brave it. And here's how it'll go down:

The first thing to admit is that it's mostly men who will greet you when you walk in the door. They are fit, lean, often ruggedly handsome men. They are nothing like you or the man you keep on your couch. You feel fat, slovenly and slightly uncoordinated in their presence, their beauty.

To this, we say, rejoice.

The perfect glass of milk

I poured the children identical, I mean identical, glasses of milk this morning.

I did this without thinking, upending a jug of milk, emptying it, easily and swiftly in two glasses, half and half. I looked down to see how precisely I had done this and a little pride ran through me.

I knew, given that it was milk, I would take a dressing down for giving one more than the other, a dollop of calcium extra was a fate too heavy for any child to bear. If I'd been pouring pop, a scuffle upending the table might come to the child walking about with Sprite teetering a 1/16th of an inch higher in his glass.

How had this happened? This miracle of being able to decipher a glass' precise volume, its joy, its punishment, while simultaneously buttering toast (again, the precision like that of a surgeon's blade)?

Letter to my boys about Grandma

I wrote this May 20, 2010 to my boys, and just came across it again. I'll share it here.....

Dear Kendall and Nelson,

Today it was pouring rain, 46 degrees out and bitter. It had rained all morning and yesterday we had Great Grandma Vera’s funeral service/burial. It’s terrible to say burial and I hope you are very old and very gray before you ever have to face the permanence and sadness of saying goodbye to someone it seems impossible to live without.

It was a gorgeous day for her service yesterday, but today the outside matched my insides. The sad, emptiness of the day. I wanted to ride as hard as I could, as long as I could and let some of it out. Just be a body in motion, doing, not feeling.