I Run for Fun

Loyal readers know that the past few months have been just a wee bit rocky for me. Aside from writing, I had to find something to occupy my mind and to exhaust my body so that I could sleep when Gigi decided she would sleep.

I used to be a swimmer, but the pool hours aren't friendly to my schedule (did you know there is actually a 5 o'clock in the morning?). And, pool chemicals aren't friendly to my, ahem, natural blonde locks.

So, last June, I downloaded an app or two on my phone, laced up my 3-year old sneakers and went for a jog. Two hills and three blocks later, I was dying. Have you ever run up a hill only to discover that the peak was hiding another hill, higher than the first? And in Oklahoma, an uphill doesn't necessarily have a downhill?!

I kept going. My bestie kept texting me and kept posting things like "I love running through sprinklers!" If she could love running through sprinklers, then dang it, so could I.

I ran through sprinklers. I ditched my running shoes and bought new ones.

I hit 12 minutes! Then 11!

I ran 2 miles! Then 3!

I won't tell you my average pace or distance now. It's either embarrassing or bragging, depending on the day.

My bestie still texts me and posts things. I find myself saying things like, "This one time, on a run, I ran smack into a garbage can."

I run because it kills my ankles until it doesn't. I run because my music chases my thoughts away. I run because the serotonin flows until it doesn't, and I can finally sleep.

I run because sometimes, you just want to be a kid with your heart pounding, arms flailing, legs pumping, and joy overcoming all of you until you just start prancing (only every now and again, but I do prance.).

I run because it's fun?

She definitely had fun. 

We look pretty good for a two hour wait.

Pink is our color. 

We did it! We did made it!

 My bestie got me good after the race. Good thing pink is my color.

And yes, I run because it's fun.

Transition Time

Every afternoon when we make the left turn into our neighborhood, I turn down the radio so that the kiddos can hear me, "Ok, when we get home, we're going to transition. We're going to take our backpacks in, hang them up. We're going to wash our hands and have some snacks." Inevitably, a voice pipes up from the back, "Mom, can I?" "RJ," I interrupt (every time), "What's the rule during transition time?"

"No questions for five minutes!" he shouts.

Transition time. The moment when we take a deep breath; we shift gears; we go potty; and we figure out what's coming next.

On ordinary days, transition time is one of my least favorite parts of the day. (On extraordinary days, my least favorite parts of the day include GiGi spraying Febreeze in her eyes necessitating water-boarding by mommy as she tries to rinse out the lavender scented acid.)

Both of my kids are in transition times of life right now.

RJ is transitioning from a preschooler to a little boy. GiGi is transitioning from a toddler to a preschooler (Too soon! The complete sentences and back talk have come too soon!)

And this transition time of life is one of my most favorite parts of parenthood. I didn't announce, "Ok, we're in transition time! RJ, you're going to hold my hand in the parking lot and kiss it, and you're going to make toot noise and laugh hysterically when you call me a tickle head." I didn't tell GiGi, "Ok, GiGi, you're going to ask me for nay-nay, and you're going to wake me up on Sunday morning and ask to see the baby elephant at the zoo."

But it happened.

RJ got new pj's tonight. "Are they football?" he asked. "Are they Transformer?!"

"Uhhhhhh, kinda," I replied under my breath. The store was out of football jammies, or anything else particularly cool.

"Awesome!" he yelled, "They have birds on the toes!" My transitioning preschooler tugged on his striped jammies with the penguins on the toes and immediately dropped to one knee, "Pew, pew, pew!" shooting his imaginary Transformer arms.

GiGi woke me up on Sunday by bouncing her fleecy bottom on my face, "Mama? Mama? Wanna see baby el'phant!"

I'm not sure when she started speaking in complete sentences. Probably about the same time she started dressing herself (when I let her):

This was the look she selected for her bedtime beauty routine. 

And this is what she put on to wear to her bubby's soccer game. She wholeheartedly believes that the shirt is a soccer shirt--because all green shirts are soccer shirts. 

She knows her colors and can sing her alphabet. But just when I think she's ready to start school, she reminds me, "I wet. I need new dumpy! You need change me now!" 

It's GiGi's transition time--that time when she tells everyone she meets, "I'm on an ad-ven-ture!" And two minutes later, she lays carefully in the floor of the Carter's store and commences kicking, throwing her shoes, and screaming, "I no wanna go home! I need nay-nay!" 

It's fascinating. 

Day to day, transition time is announced. It's planned. There are rules. 

But in life, transition time is furtive. It sneaks in and nearly sneaks past before I notice. My only guidelines are unwritten and often unknown until the moment arises. 

This sneaky stealthy transition time is my favorite. Because I see this: 

A little boy strong enough to finally swing himself on the trapeze. A Preschooler still most comfortable in his Finn McMissile tighties. 

And the perfect combination of self satisfaction and pure joy. 

Tonight, I tucked in an almost little boy in his penguin feetie 'jamas. He flipped onto his tummy, stuck his bottom in the air, and put his blankie in his mouth--just like he did when he was a toddler. I patted him on the tush. And he tooted. Loudly. And we both giggled, content in whatever comes next in this transition time of life. 

The Conversationalists

My children are talkers. Not just talkers--they're conversationalists.  No amount of cheesy crackers and juice can distract them. They wax philosophical. They work on statistics by taking informational polls. On rare occasion, they talk between themselves and leave me (blissfully) out of things. And, most mornings, they make me most grateful that at least one of them is headed to class.

Monday, 8:14 a.m., approximately 4 minutes from school:
"Mom, we are not under water creatures." "Yes," I reply, "this is true." "Did God make all these cars? How did he make them?" (I think I just got whiplash from the change in subject.)

Monday, 2:46 p.m., 2 minutes upon entering the vehicle:
"No!" (as I quickly jerk left and right to see who or what I'm about to hit). "Don't look Gigi! It's Diesel 10--he's kind of scary!" It's nice that he protects his sister, but the kid has a spot on Broadway waiting for him with all of the d-r-a-m-a.

Tuesday, 8:17 a.m., approximately 10 minutes from school:
"Mom, when are we going to see Elmo again?" The child was 2 when we saw Elmo. I'm amazed he remembers it.

Tuesday, 8:19 a.m., 8 minutes from school and 2 minutes post-Elmo:
"Mom, sometime can we get a pet for someone who wants a pet but who doesn't have money to buy one?" How do I answer this in 8 minutes?

Tuesday, 8:20 a.m., 7 minutes from school, 3 minutes post-Elmo:
"Sometime, can we watch some cartoons?"

Tuesday, 8:27 a.m., RJ has left the vehicle. The silence is deafening. And delightful.

Tuesday, 2:40 p.m.:
"Someday, when the mirror breaks on the van, can we get a car like that?" Looking over at the adorable little convertible, I sigh, "Someday, RJ. Someday."

Wednesday, 8:15 a.m.:
"Mom, what do brakes look like?"

Wednesday, 2:45 p.m.:
"Mom! We found a crack in the school wall today, so we filled it with an ice cube!" I bet his teachers were proud. I know I am.

Wednesday, 2:46 p.m.:
"Mom, sometime when I turn six, will you buy me some skis so that I can ski on snow?" Perhaps. The little man does need a way to go gather his ice cubes I suppose.

Monday, 2:51 p.m.:
"Who in this car can climb trees? Raise your hand if you can climb trees!"

Wednesday, 8:25 a.m., 1 minute after learning that he has a peanut butter sandwich in his lunchbox: "Let me explain what you're gonna make for pasta in my jar. There's two kinds: ravioli and pasta salad. Pasta salad is the one with three colors and grapes. Can you do that for me?"  I'm speechless.

Thursday, 8:13 a.m.: Gigi to RJ: "I wanna go gym-nastics!" RJ: "You can't. The door is locked right now." Gigi to mommy: "I need mommy to open it!" Because mommy is magical. Then again, mommy broke her wand in a fight with a mean wizard, so her powers are limited. (I still don't know how I'm going to worm my way out of that one--the saga continues.)

Sometimes, they're just charming:

Thursday, 11:45 a.m., naptime: "Mommy, pleeeeease can you carry me? I too tired to walk!"

And sometimes, I like to pretend that I'm only their nanny and that I get to take them home to their mother at the end of the day:

Walking into Walmart, approximately 8 high school boys standing nearby, RJ asks, "Are you wearing your new sports bra?" "Uh-huh," I reply in hopes that distracted disinterestedness will eliminate his need to elaborate. It doesn't. "Oh," he announces, "that's good 'cause the other one left skid marks on your chest." And that is why you never (ever) use the phrase skid marks in front of a five-year old boy. On the plus side, there are now 8 high school boys who have been either thoroughly entertained or thoroughly scarred for life.

Home Again, Back on Campus

Sophomore year of high school, I played in an honors orchestra that called Oklahoma City University home. We spent a weekend on campus in rehearsals and played a single concert. I ended the weekend with a huge abrasion under my chin from my fiddle, sore arms, vague memories of a smallish campus somewhere in the middle of Oklahoma City, and specific memories of the director, a tall somewhat spastic character with curly hair and enthusiasm that was catching.

My mom's memories were a bit harsher as she watched a lady of the evening sell her, um, "wares" on the easement between the freshmen girls dorm and 23rd Street. "Well, it's a beautiful little campus, but you could never send your daughter to school here."

Two years later, I moved into Walker Hall.

"You should study over at the law school," my mom told me. "You might meet some nice young man who's going to be a lawyer."

I studied in my room and didn't meet a nice young lawyer.  I did meet some professors who I credit with my ultimate survival of the college experience and beyond. (Is there such a thing as a life advisor? Because there are two in particular that I still call on every now and again.) OCU is where I learned to grocery shop for myself. It's where I learned that leaving unwashed pots and pans under your roommate's pillow is a quick and efficient way to send a message. I spent hours in the rehearsal hall and fewer hours in the practice rooms. I played for seven violin juries and panicked six times. (The seventh, my accompanist failed to show, and I was too angry to panic; turns out I'm a crazy good angry violinist--best ever performance by far).  I learned that a campus with a 4 to 1 female to male ratio wasn't likely to lead me to my knight in shining armor, but such a campus was a tremendous motivator when it came to dressing for class (there were a few cute guys--the competition was just a little heavy).

I polished my listening skills as I tutored a hundred (or so) international students in English composition classes.  I listened to poetry written by Sandra in the registrar's office, who was working on her English degree, and I read parts of screen plays that are sure to be famous someday.

The walk from my on-campus apartment to the Arts & Sciences building became as familiar as the drive down 7th Street in my hometown. Somewhere along the way, that beautiful little campus became home.

And then  I graduated. I moved away. Did some time in Stillwater (and loved every minute of it and the people I met--gosh, sometimes I'd give anything to spend one more evening at Stonewall's talking about nothing and everything with those folks). I graduated and worked as a technical writer, hating every minute of it.

And suddenly, I was back home at OCU. This time, I was a first year law student who, quite honestly, didn't know the difference between civil and criminal litigation or (if we're being totally honest here) what litigation really was. I read a thousand pages and made two thousand flash cards. I filled spiral notebooks with handwritten outlines that I later typed.

I made some good friends and some really great friends. I loved law school--except the parts where I was sick in the bathroom downstairs mid-exam (every single semester). Then I graduated. I went to work, and yada, yada, yada....I found myself on the mommy track writing a mommy docket.

OCU was very good to me. Extraordinarily good to me. So good to me that when I really stop to think about it, I can't exactly process it all. I'm not terribly spiritual about most things.  I have my beliefs, and I try to stay true to them. I do believe that there's a master plan, even though I don't always agree with it--particularly when I want to go left, and the master plan tells me to go right.

The past few months have made me question every specification on my master plan from my English degree to leaving private practice.

Today, I learned that I am the new pro bono and public interest law coordinator for the OCU School of Law. As it turns out, you can go home again, and I'm excited to be there.

Tending the Sprouts

Early last May, I shopped for victims. The unfortunate souls? Sweet basil, a few hostas, a geranium, some zinnias, and cat nip. I planted them with loving care and said a little prayer for their well being and survival skills; a green thumb I have not.  But, hope springs eternal, and last May, I clung to hope, because I didn't know what else to do. Private practice didn't fit anymore; I couldn't make any decisions. There were no fresh sprouts promising excitement, nothing to cultivate. I reached total burnout.

Parts of me had gone dormant while I let other parts overrun everything else, choking out the good, leaving weeds. Fortunately, I'm a perennial, not an annual.

Shortly before my last day of private practice, someone commented, "Congratulations! Is this a congratulations?" Now, about once every two days, I'm asked, "So, how are you liking things now?"

Congratulations were most assuredly in order. I like things now. An awful lot. 

Not so much the big things, but the little things. As it turns out, there's this whole world outside of the billable hour. A world that I had nearly forgotten. A world that I've never really known. (I was four years into practice when RJ was born; his toddler years are a blur of special occasions--because everything was a special occasion when I was at work 50 hours a week. New shoes? Special occasion! A trip to Taco Bell? Special occasion!  Bath time? Special occasion!)

Now, there's this world where a trip to the pool doesn't involve emails or phone calls. 

But it does mean getting my hair wet. 

A world where I have 15 minutes to coax baby wisps onto sponge rollers and steal pictures of her story time 'nuggles  with her daddy. 

A world made up of minuscule, mundane moments that I used to rush. (Too soon, he'll stand flat-footed in boxer shorts, and I'll wonder where these moments have gone.)

A world with time for silliness. 

Time for John Deere green--even at 10 in the morning. 

Those little snugly moments that very nearly got lost. 

There's time to explore. 

A world where a little girl has eyes only for her big brother.  

And her big brother knows it. 

A world where a patio, a comfortable chair, and a cool breeze are all you could possibly need. 

Well, some Teddy Grahams and your baby sister might make it just a little better. 

There's this world where my little boy has started smiling like this again. 

And an ordinary Tuesday looks like this. 

Or this. 

Or even this. (Because every woman loves a really nice tote.  Hers is packed with her keys, three Hot Wheels, and an autograph book--because you never know when you'll meet a Wiggle.)

There's a world where basil lives. (I had survivors this year!)

Where tiny hands prioritize and tend to little sprouts that promise something fresh and exciting.  There's this whole world for me to experience.  

For now, I'm enjoying the little moments that I had forgotten and some I never knew.