The .5K

By .5 K, I mean half a mile. But maybe a K is not a mile. I have trouble with concepts like these, despite the fact that I can do complex statistical analyses. That is, I used to. If you showed me an SPSS file now, I might run from the room screaming and demand that an exorcism be performed on my house to expel those demons from the past. (Those of you who don't know what SPSS is, good for you. You're one of lucky ones.)

There are only two statistical problems that concern me now: what is the probability that I can leave my house in the morning in a good mood? And what is the probability that I can pick up Garrett from school and feel like a sane person when I arrive home?

Like any statistical problem, we must identify the factors. Let us first consider the probability of leaving the house in a good mood. On a typical school morning, Chris and I may or may not wake up on time. After dragging ourselves out of the bed, which we have probably only occupied for 5 hours given our night owl nature, we both beg Garrett, who is already up playing on his computer, to put on his clothes. He may or may not be willing to dress, but eventually he complies. I get in the shower while Chris packs Garrett's lunch and makes his breakfast.

At some point in my bathroom ritual, I am sucked into a vortex of thought involving a) the dream I had last night, b) a compelling secret with which I have been entrusted, c) what I need to accomplish that day, d) a review of my past ambitions and whether or not they were worth it, e) a contemplation of gratitude for all the amazing blessings in my life, f) a brief rough draft of an obituary for someone I love should they drop dead today, g) a momentary reflection on my age and whether or not I should have more children, g-a) if thought "g" is a yes, have more children, then musings follow of the charming personality of this future child who loves me with his whole heart and cares for me until I die on my 100th birthday; g-b) if thought "g" is no, you'd be insane to have more children, then musings follow about how all that free time that I have because I am not raising children is used to write my New York Times Best Selling novel. Hm... what is this book about....

Oh, crap! It's 7:30. Dear, sweet Chris (a.k.a., one of the blessings) has done his job (lunch packed, children fed and dressed), and here I am cocooned in my towel of thought. I dress, I dry my hair, I shout from the bathroom door, "Garrett, are your shoes on?" He yells back, "NO! I'm playing my game." I yell back, "It's not time to play games! It's time to put on your shoes." I finally emerge from the bathroom and see that Garrett is dressed for a warm spring day, which is fine, except that it's a balmy 3 degrees outside. And lest you think I'm a total failure, I did set out his warm clothes with him the night before.

Garrett redresses. I finish dressing and accessorize. I beg Garrett to put on his gloves, coat, and hat, and get his backpack and lunch. I fill my travel mug with coffee. I learn that Garrett is playing with an action figure. I say, "Garrett! Put. On. Your. Coat." I find my cell phone (in case one of us gets hit by a car or loses a shoe down a sewage drain on the way to school) and put on my own scarf, hat, gloves, and "warmest coat" from the Gap catalog. I have to ask Garrett again to get it together. Sometimes he is really focused and does all of this without the reminders and prodding. But usually, he's lost in Garrett fantasy land, much like I was in the bathroom.

We yell bye bye to daddy and Mary and head out the door. I tell Garrett to be careful of the ice. He deliberately steps on it. I can read his mind... "Hm... dangerous ice... I'd like to know what that feels like under my Spiderman snow boot... I'll just step on it slightly... uh oh...." I remind him, "Garrett, sweetheart, the ice is slippery don't step on it." We finally make it out of the driveway, and round the corner in the direction of Isabela's house--our first .10 mile marker. With a few reminders to not walk on people's ice laden retaining walls, and to walk forward with purpose as if our feet were shooting arrows, we arrive at the school in time for the first bell. Our cheeks are frozen, our spirits high, and my coffee cold. We see the other parents and kids and greet each other with that eerie, yet delightful, Leal School optimism: Good morning! Isn't it a great day?

Mood check: Good. But sometimes it is not good. Sometimes I have PMS and the whole glove/hat/coat thing can make me breathe fire. Sometimes I'm so tired and pre-maturely overwhelmed with the demands of the day that I feel the cranky-meter take off like a rocket. Sometimes I don't have time to make my coffee. Sometimes it is insanely cold and we are too frozen to do anything but whimper. (Ironically, it is times like these that I appear my nicest because I am cheering Garrett on: Hang in there, baby! We're almost there. I can see the school now! Oh, it's going to be warm and toasty inside. Aren't you glad you're not mommy? Mommy still has to walk home!") Underneath my visible breath I am asking myself, "What in carnation brought me to this tundra? The only cold I was ever meant to experience is Pacific fog." On the walk home, I go back over the gratitude thing and imagine that my best selling book will allow me to take a book tour to warm places.

This is my .5K--my own daily marathon. It takes training. It takes resolve. It takes positive thinking. It takes a fine cup of coffee and the support of the other school-bound travelers. We have our own check points and dreams of reaching the finish line. Oh yes, we are champions every time we round the bend and see the crossing guard smiling and waving us forward. The kids forget how cold they are and hug their friends. The mommies and daddies raise their coffee mugs to each other and know that we all raced to get here, and even when we were inside our own houses, we were united in our mission.

The end of the school day is another matter entirely. At 2:45 one is not thinking about the promises that the day holds. One is shocked that the day is half over. There are no meditative showers to inspire thought and synthesize the meaning of life. The coffee is reheated in the microwave. Despite your high hopes, the weather is not warmer. In fact, it might be a little colder. Perhaps the wind has picked up. And most notably, for me, there is Mary.

Mary who refuses to change her diaper despite the fact that it's full of poop. Mary who does not want to be roused from her princess-blanketed couch. Mary who will only leave the house if she is permitted to bring her baby in its toy stroller with rickety wheels or her shopping cart. Mary who insists on dressing like a rainbow and won't wear her coat because it is not a rainbow. Mary who must stop and investigate every tree, bush, stick, and snow pile on the way to the school, and who insists that I carry the stroller/cart over the patches of ice. Mary whose nose starts to run all over her face, but shrieks at the sign of a tissue. This child of God who tells me she loves me at least 4 times each day, and whom I make pots upon pots of chicken soup because it is her favorite, turns on me like a Judas. She knows I am distressed about making it to the school on time. It only strengthens her resolve to dawdle. She tortures me on purpose.

If you don't believe me, I have witnesses. All those supportive fellow .5K-ers from the morning walk can tell you that I am a different person for the afternoon walk and that Mary is the reason. Just ask my friend who has helped me to carry the doll stroller home. Just ask my other friend who I often had to tell to "go on without us... it's too cold." Save yourselves! Query the crossing gaurd if you must--she'll tell you that my son is in the middle of the street, while my daughter is 30 feet behind us selecting a stick. If you prefer evidence to testimony, just follow the serpentine trail of snot to know that Mary has chosen to take the indirect path. Sometimes I think I should be looking for the 666 marking under her hair.

Of course, by the time we make it home, shed the the winter gear, kick off the boots, and have a good stretch, we're back to the default mentality: love, peace, and treats. It's cookies and hot chocolate all around--Garrett's with mini marshmallows and Mary's without. By the time the cups are emptied and the tummies are patted, the Hell walk is a distant memory. Mary and Garrett trot off to play together and I have a long moment to myself--sometimes with a fresh cup of coffee. It is a blessing all unto itself.

Night Caps and Musical Beds

Lately we've been having an issue with our nighttime ritual. Usually it's pretty straightforward: pajamas, vitamins, teeth, stories, tickles, songs, water/milk, kiss-kiss, light adjustments, see ya. The whole thing takes about 30 minutes and then it's time for that glorious part of the day where mommies and daddies everywhere ask themselves one question: what uninterrupted activity can I do now? What set of complete sentences shall I read or write? What fluid conversation shall I hold? What overtired-mushy brain escape can I consider? The possibilities seem endless compared to the child-awake options that are available for the other 75% of the day.

But there is trouble in Fraley City. Somewhere between light adjustments and see ya, we have had demands for a night cap. Yes, a night cap. I don't mean the sort that I'd like to have (those tasty adult sedatives that can be sipped slowly before one heads off to dreamland). I'm talking about a hat that one wears on one's head while sleeping for the purpose of thermal regulation. Ma in her kerchief and me in my cap kind of hat.

The first night Garrett asked for this unnecessary head gear followed our return from a post-holiday visit to California. Garrett was tucked in his bed, ready for kisses, and said, "Mommy, I'd like a night cap."
I blinked twice in confusion. "A what?" I asked.
"A night cap."
"Did you say a knights cap? Like for a knight?"
"Yes," he said. I was confused because he had never referred to a knight helmet as a cap before. Oh, well.
"We'll look in the costume bucket tomorrow" I assured him.
"Okay." I thought he'd forget about his knights and whatever he wanted with the hat.

The next evening he was back on the subject of the night cap. I started to suspect that I really didn't know what he was talking about. I asked for more clarification, "Garrett, do you want a cap that is for a knight--the kind that sits on a horse and lives in a castle?"
"No Mommy! I want a night cap, like in Scrooge, the Donald Duck one, like what we watched at Pop and GP's house. For sleeping." OH!

I should mention that we visited my parents a week after Christmas. I guess technically we were still in the Christmas season, although I think it should officially end with New Year's Eve, don't you? So, it's odd, but not really odd that the kids were watching Christmas DVDs while the rest of us were vowing to lose weight and invest more in retirement. In fact, it's a well known fact that my mother watches Christmas movies all year long. I think I was 15 before I realized that It's a Wonderful Life is a seasonal film. So what if there's a Christmas tree at the end?

I hadn't realized that Garrett was watching adapted Disney holiday movies because I was out having fun with friends, and I can't figure out why he deduced that the take home message of A Christmas Carol is that one should go to bed with a hat. But, it's a simple request that I will gladly grant so that I can get on with the business of doing nothing in particular. The closest thing I have to a night cap is my own winter hat, which met with Garrett's approval. "Oh thank you mommy! I love this night cap! Can it be mine?" I said okay. Kiss. Lights. See ya.

Mary couldn't stand the fact that Garrett was able to make an additional bedtime request, so she spent a few nights brainstorming a request of her own. Naturally, hers was much more complicated. Two nights into the night cap ritual she announced in her typical bugle fashion: I WANT TO SLEEP IN GARRETT'S BED!

This is the kind of request that sounds major alarms in your parenting head. BOMP. BOMP. BOMP. DANGER AHEAD! KEEP OUT! I mentally see myself on that underground train cart in Goonies in which a high speed ride turns into inevitable doom. Namely, you run out of track and fall into a pit of lava in the deep earth. Like the little train ride, It might seem fun at first. Garrett's little sister wants to sleep with her big brother. How special. Except that it's a slippery slope to hell. First, it's Garrett's bed. Then it's extra stories in Garrett's bed. Then it's lights out. Then it's mommy we need flashlights. Mommy we need more water. Giggles, talking, laughing, and anything but sleeping follow. Finally, there is frustration on the part of a very tired older brother who just wants his bed back (uh oh, running out of track). Somehow Mary is able to attach her self to the bed like a fly on fly paper. You truly can't get her off.

Not to worry because Garrett has a solution. With a sleepy look of despair, night cap askew from the effort to remove Mary from his Spiderman nest, he musters a woebegone sigh, "Mommy, how 'bout I just sleep in your bed?" Fine. Just for tonight.

After hours of wisely using my time to watch American Idol, play online Scrabble, read a chapter in my book, put a spoon in the dishwasher, watch water boil and contemplate a blog entry, I decide it's time for bed. Oh drat. Someone is in my bed. I'm not in the mood to wake and lift children. Chris can't lift them because he's developed this pesky problem called Pleurisy in which--I think--your muscles snap or give out because of 6 weeks of abusive coughing. It's kind of tiring to live with this pleurisy problem even though you can't lift a finger to do a thing. So tiring that Chris has gone to bed ahead of me and I can't just scootch in next to Garrett.

There's only one bed left. Gratefully, I am short and can sleep in a child's bed. But I can't sleep with a child's blanket. I gather more appropriate bedding--a princess comforter and large fuzzy pink blanket. I sling myself over the protective side bar, and settle in for the night. I barely remember my head hitting the boppy when I am awoken to a familiar bugle, which screams, "GET OUT OF MY BED! That's my bed! No, I don't like that blanket." The Princesses fly from my body, followed by my fuzzy pink shroud. I beg for mercy. "Mary, I'm cold! Give me back my blanket please. It's not time to get up."
She has a heart of stone. "No! It my bed. That blanket doesn't go there!"
Fine, you crazy bed-nazi. Just remember who pours the milk around here.

The night cap can stay. The bed-nazi is going down.