I'm not even going to ask what else can go wrong

Leading up to marathon #12:

I made a clerical error with my training plan and did my peak mileage week (including a 20 mile training run) 2 weeks before the marathon instead of 3 weeks.  Now, I'm a firm believer in Hal Higdon and have used some version of his training plans for each of my previous 11 marathons, and he always has you do a 3-week taper.  Anything less and your body isn't rested/recovered for race day.  Well, long about 18-weeks ago when I was entering my weekly long runs on the calendar, I made a mistake and entered the 20-mile run for April 1st, a mere 2 weeks prior to the race.  I didn't even realize it until shortly before I headed out for the run, when Rob said something to the effect of, "So you're shooting for a 2-week taper, then.  That's ballsy."  I freaked the hell out.  But.  There wasn't much I could do about it at that point except hope that a 2-week taper turns out to be the Best Thing Ever.  We'll see.

A day or two after my poorly scheduled 20-miler, I was taking the trash down to the curb and twisted my ankle and fell flat on my face.  It was bad.  Like, bad enough that I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to stand up and walk outside, not only from being mortified that half the neighborhood saw me, but also because my ankle seemed broken.  I couldn't put any weight on it, I couldn't even move it.  Walking to work that day was interesting to say the least.  I did lots and lots of ice and Aleve for many days afterwards.  It remained swollen and it hurt to touch or rotate, but interestingly enough it did not hurt to run.  I regained a cautious sense of optimism that the marathon might be possible after all.

Just when I seemed to be on the mend (Thursday), I was out for a routine 3-mile super easy run-- my last run before the marathon.  And I tripped.  Not on a pinecone or my shoelace or even a crack in the sidewalk.  There was nothing there.  I just tripped.  And twisted my ankle in the same exact spot as my previous injury.  Oh my god it hurt.  I sat there on the sidewalk, leaning up against a light post and wondering how I was going to make it home.  Eventually, I told myself everything would be okay and got up and ran.  I'm now about 2-days out from this repeat ankle injury, and interestingly it hurts less than it did before the whole thing began.  Maybe it was like my previous series of knee-related running injuries, which began when I tripped and fell on a "gum ball" (wrenching my knee in the process) and then completely disappeared 6 weeks later when I tripped and fell on another gum ball.  Go figure.

You may begin to notice that tripping and falling is a common theme in my life.

Because bad things never happen in 3's, the next set-back I encountered was Rob's cold.  He started coming down with a cold about 2 weeks before the marathon (around the same time I noticed my clerical error and fell down the driveway).  I thought, great, I'll probably catch this and be sick for the marathon.  But then I reevaluated and determined No, that would never happen.  If I caught the cold from him it would be within a matter of days, and while I might be uncomfortable for a little while, it would all pass long before the marathon.  Not so!  Rob's cold has continued to linger, most uncharacteristically, for this entire time.  He has been fairly miserable, and I have nervously observed this trajectory while waiting for the other shoe to fall.

I managed to evade the cold for for almost two weeks.  And then Thursday (consequently, just hours after I re-twisted my ankle), it hit.  My throat hurt, my head hurt, I felt chilled to the bone, and my left eye was red and swollen shut.  "What's the matter with you, do you have a stye?" one of my coworkers asked.  A stye??  What the hell is that.

I urge you, never, ever to Google the term "stye" while you are on your lunch break.

But at least I learned that styes are not life threatening, and they are treatable by the relatively simple process of applying a warm compress.  Excellent.  After about 2 days of that, the redness and swelling started to go down, and I feel like I will probably be able to wear my contacts again by tomorrow.

And another thing: the weather forecast for tomorrow is a high of 77 and thunderstorms.

Bring it.

Thanks for reading.

Dear William (32 months)

Dear William,

Today you are 32 months old!

We had the warmest March on record, which makes me nervous for the future of the planet, but allowed for us to spend some nice days outside in the meantime.

You got a boo-boo while running around and tripping on your feet:

 

You ate lunch with your sunglasses on:

 

 

You ate a Clif Bar in the back yard:

 

You went hiking with your dad:

 

You directed traffic on the sidewalk:

 

 

You spent some time reading with the family:

 

You spent some time reading alone:

 

You spent some time playing with Mama Monkey and Baby Monkey

 

 

You went to a Pow Wow with your mom.

 

 

 

 

You sing a lot of songs, William, including Elmo's World.

 

We all had a great time this month, William!  We are looking forward to more great things to come.

Love,

Your mom

 

There is a fine line between "hip and edgy" and "Lucille Bluth"

Something about this haircut has just been rubbing me the wrong way.  I couldn't quite put my finger on it until finally I realized: I am walking a very fine line between "hip and edgy" and "Lucille Bluth."

This isn't all bad. Lucille Bluth is my all-time favorite fictional character. If only I could be as bad ass as this: 

 

 

And now for the evidence:

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Wow, it is really hard to make this face and while taking your own picture with your iPhone).

 

 

 

(Also, making this face is a lot harder than it looks).

 

Thank you, Lucille Bluth, for being my inspiration.

I did it

Before:

 

 

 

 

 

 

After:

Hair today, gone tomorrow

My mother has been my hairdresser for my entire life.  Seriously.  I have never had anyone else cut my hair, ever.  I have never even set foot in a "salon."  Wait, I take that back.  When my best friend got married, I was in the wedding, and all of the bridesmaids met at a salon and we got "up-do's" (that was in 2004, and I really was scrawny back then).  But aside from that, I have never been in a salon. The whole idea of a beauty salon freaks the hell out of me.  I am pretty low maintenance when it comes to my appearance.  I feel like it is better not to make an effort rather than attempt to make an effort and fail.  I am probably the only 32-year old woman in the developed world who had never been in a beauty salon (okay, aside from that once).  I don't understand how it works.  I don't understand the tipping process.  How much do you tip? Do you hand it to the hairdresser or do you add it to your credit card bill (like when you're paying at a restaurant)?  The whole idea of going to a salon is terrifying and overwhelming.

But now my mother and I live in separate states. True, we have lived in separate countries on more than one occasion but each of those experiences was only one year in length.  During these occasions, I cut my own hair when necessary.  This St. Louis thing seems more permanent though (for better or for worse).  I feel like it might be time to explore the option of having someone other than my mother or myself cut my hair.

I've extensively consulted my coworkers and the graduate students, and I've discovered that there is this hairdresser up on The Loop that about half of the department goes to.  Apparently, he is some kind of hair genius.   He can make straight hair curly, curly hair straight, etc.  One of his customers even referred to him as a "hair therapist."  I don't know exactly what that means, but it's a good thing, right?

I made an appointment with him, and I'm going tomorrow.  At this point, I have not had my hair cut (by my mother) in over 8 months and it is a total disaster of frizz and ringlets and split ends so sharp they hurt to touch.  In fact, my hair has become such an affliction that I feel like I might need a doctor instead of a hairdresser.  This guy on The Loop is going to have his work cut out for him, that's all I can say.

If the results are decent, I'll post pictures soon.

Thanks for reading.

When I was blonde and scrawny

My Grandma Florence always used to refer to this time in her life when she was "blonde and scrawny" (her words), but none of us could ever figure out when that time in her life could possibly have been because to the best of our knowledge she had never been either.  To her credit, she is quite trim in her wedding photo (she and Grandpa would have gotten married in 1932 or was it 1933?), but she maintained that the wedding photo was not taken until some time after the wedding because her own mother told her she was "too scrawny" to have her picture taken on the actual wedding date.  But her hair is clearly dark in the wedding photo, as it is in every other picture I have ever seen of her.  I think, possibly, she may have been embellishing a bit on the issue of being blonde and scrawny.

As for myself, I suppose there are some (my mother probably) who would consider me scrawny.  I'm not sure if that is true though.  Generally speaking, a size 2 is gigantic on me, but I still look like an over-fed walrus compared to most women around me.  Particularly college girls, who I am surrounded by most of the time (since I work on a college campus).  I weigh the same or less than before I had Will, but nothing is in the same place, and it is kind of depressing.

No one would consider me blonde, at least I didn't think so.  I've always had dark hair.  My sister was the blonde one.  I never wanted to be blonde, but when I was younger I dyed my hair red several times because I really liked Anne of Green Gables.

The other day I was walking across campus with a friend/coworker, and I was complaining about my hair, which at this moment in time is reminiscent of what Gilda Radner would have looked like if she'd ever stuck her finger in a light socket.

Anyway, I made some reference to my hair being brown, and my friend/coworker did a double take.  "I wouldn't say you have brown hair," she said.  "Maybe it's more of a dark blonde."

Me, blonde?

To be fair, the ends of my hair are a completely different color than the roots, and not because I've done anything to it.  They've just gotten bleached out over time and hundreds of miles running in the sun since my last haircut.

But still, it was quite unexpected that someone might ever think of me as blonde.  I can see myself, someday, elderly and perhaps sitting in a rocking chair, telling William of a time long ago when I was blonde and scrawny.  And I can see him reacting with the same kind of incredulity we always did when Grandma made those claims.

Dear William (31 months)

Dear William

Today you are 31 months old!  This past month you took your first ever international trip.The entire family unit went to Nicaragua, to visit the village where your mama studied howler monkeys for a year.  Your dad ran an ultra marathon called Fuego y Agua.  It was intense.  You can read all about it here, here, here, here and here!

The thing I loved most about this whole trip was seeing the way you interacted with others.  You don't have a shy bone in your body, William.  You don't know a stranger.  Everyone is your friend.  My first indication was when we were on the ferry going to Ometepe and you saw a little girl about your age.  You announced to me, "I GO PLAY WITH BABY," and that is exactly what you did.  You are adorable.  For the rest of the trip you played with everyone you met.  You learned a few spanish words.  Caballo, agua, and vamos were (and still are) some of your favorite things to say.

 

 

You loved Nicaragua, William.  I can't wait until we go back.  I am already planning to take you backpacking through Central America during your summer vacations from school.

 

A few other things have happened this month:

You figured out how to ride a tricycle.  You've been riding a trike for a while now, but by running your feet along the ground, Fred Flinstone style.  It was only recently that you decided to use the pedals.

 

You are a bit dramatic (though that is nothing new).  Instead of saying that you don't want to do something right now, you frequently add the qualifier anymore.  For example, "I NO POOP ON POTTY ANYMORE!" Or, "I NO PUT ON SHOES ANYMORE!"  Or, "I NO EAT APPLE ANYMORE!"  Speaking of eating, you are still a difficult eater.  But sometimes you eat cinnamon toast:

 

You still love dinosaurs.

 

You have a fear of rabbits. About 75% of the time you cry in the night and end up joining us in Mommy and Daddy's bed. I ask you why you don't want to sleep in your own bed and you say, "I SCAREDA RABBIT. HE UP ON DA HILL." Not sure where you got that from. The other day you had a rough nap time and didn't end up sleeping. I asked you why, and you cited your fear of rabbits again, except this time you added, "I GOTTA ALLIGATOR IN MY BELLY." Hm.

Whether you sleep in your own bed or in "Mommy Daddy Bed" (as you call it), you require quite an entourage:

(Your dad bought you Sully and Wazowski after we got back from Nicaragua! Aren't you lucky!)

 

Oh, and your dad got a new car this month.  I am calling it the "Family Roadster."  You have ridden in it once, I think, but I never have yet!  Maybe next month.

 

We love you, William!

 

xoxo

Your mom :)