Breathe in, Breathe Out

This week report cards are due, our school is hosting an open house on Saturday, my husband’s work hours have increased due to a big project and to top it off I have an essay due for my speed work class. I almost forgot to mention that I get to read said essay in front of my running group-public speaking-sweet! It’s all a bit overwhelming, but before I head into stress mode I need to just stop and breathe. Oh, right, breathing, that’s what got me in this essay writing predicament in the first place.

Breathing. It’s pretty simple really, oxygen in, carbon dioxide out. Oxygen in, carbon dioxide out. Repeat for let’s say 80-100 years and you’re good to go. This has always been enough for me. I do understand that there are many people from yogis to runners who think there’s more to this breathing thing than just inhaling and exhaling. I’ve known for years that my running might be a little better if I could take deeper breaths especially on hills, but I have never really mastered this. When workouts get tough, my breathing transforms from that of a sweet and mild school teacher to that of a B movie killer.  My breathing strikes terror in my running partners, they cautiously look over their shoulders expecting some psychopath in a hockey mask wielding a chainsaw. “Oh, it’s just Aimee climbing a hill. Of course.”

I’ve read some things here and there and half-heartedly listened to coaches explain the breathing process, but really the whole thing is foreign. First of all, there are rhythms that a good runner gets into. I’ve read about these. There are simple ratios that a focused breather needs to follow. Impressively, some runners are able to match their breathing to their foot strikes. For example on every exhale your left foot is hitting the pavement. I’m just barely coordinated enough  for my feet to hit the pavement at all (I’ve been known to kick myself while running on more than one occasion), I can’t imagine trying to synchronize it with my breath. Still, this seemed like a simple formula that I could master with a little concentration, so I decided to find out more. The first place my research took me recommended a rhythm of inhaling for two foot strikes then exhaling for the next two. This is called a 2:2 rhythm. Next, I went on to another site where a different expert encouraged a 3:3 rhythm. Another site and another expert, this one saying you could even go as far as a 4:4, especially if you are a beginner or doing a really steep hill. I am constantly doing math while I run- How many more miles do I have to go? How many minutes will it take me? How many calories am I burning? How many slices of pizza can I have when I’m finished with all this? So, adding more calculations, this time in the form of ratios shouldn’t be too overwhelming.

The experts may differ on the exact ratio of inhaling to foot strikes, but everyone agrees that during times of exertion you should be breathing from your belly and not your chest. This sounds strange to me as the last time I checked my lungs were in, of all the darnedest places, my chest!  Apparently though, the air sacs which contain carbon dioxide are in the lower parts of your lungs. You can’t get rid of the CO2 and let new oxygen in unless you are taking deep breaths. Belly breathing, involves inhaling deeply enough that you feel your abdomen filling like a balloon. Years of brownies, cookies and ice cream sandwiches have given me the constant feeling of a balloon belly. And frankly I spend most of my awake time holding that puppy in. Now, I’m supposed to purposely push out the tummy? I don’t think so.

The experts also debate whether you should be breathing through your nose, your mouth or a combination of both. I’ll be honest; I’ve seen some ugly things coming out of the noses of runners, especially at this time of year. The idea of me intentionally trying to push anything out of my nose, even if it’s air, is not appealing. Therefore, I decided I’d revisit the nose vs. mouth topic some other time.

I finally did find a blog where someone said runners should most often be taking shallow breaths.  I finally felt validated, until I read the many outraged comments debunking this theory. Apparently you can’t believe everything you read on the internet.

 Even though I know short, shallow breaths are not ideal, I’ve not managed to put breathing on the top of my priority list. My running priorities involve consistency, endurance and speed. According to my research, however, better breathing can actually help with all of my other goals. It’s not just the lungs that need oxygen. The muscles do, too. The more oxygen I take in, the more my lungs are willing to share with other parts of me. Better oxygenated muscles mean more speed, more endurance and more energy to stay consistent.

Another important body part that benefits from oxygen is the good old brain. I don’t know about you, but at my age, the more brain power, the better. For those who run endurance events the lack of oxygen to the brain is no joke. We don’t need to find ourselves hours in to a trail run feeling disoriented, confused and lightheaded.  I say save those feelings for the Pub, post-race. 

Breathing-it’s so simple, yet people spend a great deal of time reading about it, asking about it, worrying about it and writing about it. After all my time spent researching the topic I have decided to:

 1. Focus on my breathing the next time I do a solo run.

 2. Borrow Chi Running from the library.

 3. Share my info with you and

4. Audition for Friday the 13^th part 87. I think I’d make a fantastic Jason.

Don't Sell Yourself, Short(y)

On Saturday morning as I was pulling my car into the parking lot of the Antique Sandwich Company in Tacoma I felt a fluttering in my abdomen. I believe the medical term for what I was experiencing is butterflies in the stomach.  My first thought was “I am not going in,” quickly followed by the admonishing “You’re ridiculous.” Here I was after a twelve mile run invited, yes invited, to join the group for a hot drink and a snack and I was feeling apprehensive about going in. I had just run many, many miles with these very people, joking, whining, heavily breathing and now I was having second thoughts about sitting around a table with them. How could it possibly be that a seasoned friend-maker like myself was having the first day of school jitters?

It’s not that I’m bad at making friends or unlikable, in fact it might be the opposite, but the beginning is often, well, awkward.  Some people are suave and full of charisma. They can strike up a conversation with a lamp. Though I have had my moments, I usually can’t light up a room that easily (oooh I couldn’t resist the pun-sorry). I have had several people say that when they first met me that thought I was shy, conservative, quiet, etc. Then once they got to know me-watch out-here comes the fun. I know a few people who always come on a little strong when first making friends and it just doesn’t suit me. I’d rather make my move slowly and then let my fun, cool personality kind of sneak up on you.

Even though the sneak approach is usually my MO it doesn’t necessarily mean I’m totally comfortable with it. Let’s go back to Saturday. I walked in the Antique Sandwich Company and there were several members of the group sitting around a circular table toward the back. They meet there weekly after our run, but this was the first time I could join. I’m fairly new to the group; I’ve been running with them for just under three months and really have only gotten to know them a bit better just in the past few weeks. I am not sure how long the others have known each other, but there was a voice whispering in my head that they were all close buddies and I was the outsider. A few people politely asked me questions, and I eagerly answered, but everything that came out of my mouth seemed foreign. My attempt at wit & sarcasm (usually specialties of mine) sounded instead like I was being dull or possibly even rude. I was much more content to listen to their conversations and toss in a few comments rather than have the spotlight shining on me.

Still, I was glad I went. They are all really nice people and I liked being around them. I know my own minor discomfort was just part of the friend making process and didn’t really reflect on me, nor is it a predictor of whether or not I’ll be part of the gang some day. I saw a handful of the same people last night in a speed working class. We did the chatter and small talk thing and I was quite content talking and joking with them.

This is usually what happens when I am making my way into an already established group. When we first moved to Washington I had just two or three days to settle in before I had to work. I was pretty shell-shocked moving across the country leaving all friends and family behind. My kids were little and I had a harder than usual time getting to know people. Whether at school or at the countless birthday parties I attended, I remember feeling like I was always trying to sell myself. It was always, “I’m from Boston, My Masters Degree is in Education, I breastfed both kids until they were almost two, I love the Red Sox, my husband’s in the Coast Guard,  I have a dog and three cats, my hobbies are reading and writing,  no I don’t say 'Pahk the Cah in Hahvid Yahd'-ever,  yes I have always been short, yes, I am a sucker for chocolate, etc. etc..” Which I hoped would somehow translate into I’m smart, I’m fun, I’m sensitive, I’m thoughtful, I’m witty, I’m worldly, nice, but  edgy, I’m creative, yet serious. I’m the whole package. Sometimes it translated just right and sometimes it fell short.  But that’s life.

My dear friend Susan and I laugh about one of our earliest encounters. It was the first week of school and we were both attending a parent meeting. While we were both recent transplants to the area, I felt like I was always frazzled like I was in a constant state of jet lag, and I thought she was the picture of perfect. She was stylish, together, seemed to know everyone, she was confident and outgoing. She stopped me in the hall during a break during this parent meeting and started chatting with me.  When we were done gabbing I sauntered into the ladies room feeling excited that such a cool character had sought me out to try to get to know me. I then looked in the mirror and to my horror noticed that my shirt was on backwards! What’s worse is that because I was both a parent and a staff member I had already had to stand up and introduce myself to the 40 or so people in the room. They all probably noticed that my shirt was on backwards. Perhaps they thought that it was an East Coast trend?  I actually love telling this story with Susan because sometimes she’ll say she didn’t even notice my shirt was backwards and other times she’ll say she just didn’t know how to tell me and still other times she’ll say it really wasn’t that noticeable.  Any way you slice it, it was classic Aimee, which is fine in beloved company, but painful when trying to make an impression. I guess that’s my point, I’d rather get right down to the beloved company stage without having to do the self-conscious dance beforehand.

I truly enjoy people and have a “The More The Merrier” mentality.I love having a lot of interesting characters in my life and always feel like there's room for more. Being social, making conversation and being a good listener usually come easily to me. In the times like Saturday when some work needs to be put in, it’s a little disorienting. I feel like I have to balance the inner salesperson who wants everyone to know what a great deal they’re getting in a friend like me, and the voice that says here’s a group perfectly happy without you-what’s your purpose? I know this is all part of the human experience. And for the most part I’m very content with the whole thing.  I think it’s important to feel out of your element sometimes. And I think it’s a rare treat to feel challenged in an area that’s usually a strength.

 For me, the timing is a happy coincidence, or maybe a clear message from the Universe. As the mother of a shy twelve year old sometimes I need a reminder of how rough it is can be entering  a new social situation. While I often try to approach this as a cheerleader “Go Maddee, Go!” I think I could be more empathetic. If putting yourself out there is hard at 39, imagine how it is at 12! And while I want the whole world to know how amazing Madison is, the truth is not everyone she encounters will.  I know I can learn from her and hopefully she can learn from me, too. The fact that her shirt isn’t on backwards just goes to show that she’s already a step ahead of the game.

The Legend of The Christmas Letter

One of my favorite things to do this time of year is my Holiday letter. I love it, too, when people email me after receiving the letter to tell me how much they enjoy my humor. I think it’s great to go to an extended family event and be complimented on my humble little letter. It’s so fantastic. I’ve even had people ask me if they could be on my Christmas card list! But, I suppose I must come forward and tell you that I can’t really take sole credit. I mean I do have a small staff of tiny men and women working for me. Sure, I have the ideas, but they are the ones who put it altogether. It used to be that I would creep into houses via chimney or, even better, mail slot, but that’s when I was a lot slimmer and younger and without so much facial hair. Anyway now I am just too darn busy to be hand delivering mail. And the demand is so much greater. Now I have my little friends, the elves do it.  It used to be that my letters only traveled a short distance, but now I’m expected to get these things out and about all over the globe. Germany? Africa? Missouri? How am I supposed to get it all done and be back in time for Christmas morning?! I mean sure, I have a few feral reindeer in my neighborhood who could probably be bribed into pulling me around, but reindeer just don’t have the same work ethic that they used to. They’d probably charge me an inordinate amount of money, have me put it in Dasher’s paypal account and then ditch me anyway.  Now that marijuana’s legal in Washington I’d be hard pressed to find a couple of reindeer who weren’t clad in tie-dye ponchos, sitting on the couch making paper snowflakes and eating Cheetos, anyway.

Each year I look forward to writing the letter and each year parts of the letter wind up on the cutting room floor. I wish I did these letters on a typewriter because I’d love the drama of pulling out a piece of freshly typed Allen history, crumbling it into a ball and watching it pile up. That would be more satisfying than this backspace, delete thing I have going on. Where’s the pleasure in that? 

This year, I found it especially difficult to write the letter. To me, the letter is all about entertainment. Oh and I suppose it’s necessary to include some information about the family. I want to keep people interested and I want to avoid the possibility that someone might just skim the letter. Give them one or two boring lines and the next thing you know they are skipping whole paragraphs just to get to the end.  This year, I actually did five drafts before I finally came up with a winner. I made the mistake of not immediately printing 155 copies and now I am rethinking the letter again. In fact I was originally going to post all of the false starts here in this blog, but now that I am re-reading them, I might just weave them in to the letter. Don’t tell Mike or the kids I’m thinking of another re-write. That might be all the ammunition they need to take my laptop away and lock it up until next year.

I complained on Facebook about this whole process and people started advising me. People told me not to sweat it.  There were suggestions to let my kids do it. They told me this whole thing was no big deal. I was totally offended. Clearly these people didn’t recognize my writing prowess from years past. These are probably the people who set the letter aside to read later (sarcastic air quotes*) and never do. Or, more likely, they were Facebook novices and didn’t realize the whole point of Facebook was to complain and ask for advice and then get indignant when people actually tried to help you.

Every year as I am beginning this process I re-read the letters from years past. My favorite might be from 2006 when we first moved here and I was on the hunt for decent pizza. Pizza jokes go a long way my friends, a long way. As do toilet training jokes (see 2005), and the inevitable rain jokes-hey it is the Pacific Northwest.

I’m not sure how this year’s letter will compare to the letters of years past. I hope people enjoy it, even if it’s not my best. I will probably leave it out for the elves to put some finishing touches on it tonight. And if it still isn’t up to par by morning the reindeer can always make paper snowflakes out of it.  

 

*Yes, I realize I could have used real quotation marks here, but I really wanted you to be clear that sarcastic air quotes were indeed necessary

May the Best Amphibian Win

I wanted to do something about the elections with my students, but I didn’t want them to be voting based on what their parents were doing. I wanted them to consider the candidates and the issues and vote based on that. More than anything I wanted them to understand the process and the importance of picking a leader. Eight years ago, my friend Laurie did an election with her class based on the book Duck For President by Doreen Cronin. I vaguely remembered her mentioning this, of course in my memory it was both my friends Liz and Laurie doing it (at the time they had neighboring classrooms) and it was the Tortoise vs. The Hare. (I’ve never been known as detail oriented). Still, I had the gist of it and was excited to put my own spin on things. And so the Frog and Toad elections were born.

You probably know Frog and Toad, the delightful storybook characters who are the stars of several books by Arnold Lobel. I thought, and my co-teacher Alicia agreed, that these two likeable fellows would be the perfect candidates. I realized early on that I might have miscalculated, because when reading the book to my class, I noticed for the first time how lazy Toad is. The fact that he wouldn’t get out of bed from November-May didn’t bode well for his candidacy. Still, it was too late to find new candidates, so I moved forward. After reading the story to my class we generated a list of characteristics of both Frog and Toad. It was clear my initial worries about Toad were warranted, as children noted that he was lazy, too emotional, and quick to jump to conclusions. This was before they knew he was running for president!

On day two of our project we talked about the right to vote. We talked about how we listen to what the candidates have to say before we make our decisions. There were several children who had watched the Presidential debates on TV and had a good idea of what a debate might look like. It was my intention all along to have a debate, and was excited that the students were on board with the idea. The children were tasked with writing one debate question each for the candidates. The children could write their question any time and drop it in a basket. I peeked at some, but for the most part the questions were a surprise.The debate was scheduled for 11:15 the next day. Some of the children tried to translate this election to the Presidential election. We have a lot of Obama supporters in our class and a lot of Frog supporters, too. One child declared “A vote for Frog is a vote for Obama,” as he tried to sway some of the undecided classmates. Another child reminded her classmates not to make any decisions “until we hear from the candidates at the debate.”

On debate day, Alicia read the children’s questions to me; while I, using my homemade Frog and Toad puppets, answered. I tried to answer the questions in a way I thought was close to how Frog and Toad would,  though paying attention to the fact that Toad was already in hot water with the voters. When Alicia started reading the questions I was overwhelmed with pride. I shouldn’t have been surprised at how thoughtful their questions were, but  surprised I was.  What would you do for the poor? How would you support the military? Do you think recycling is important? What would you do about Hurricane Sandy? What would you do with criminals?  What would you do about trash? How would you help homeless people? What would you do about bullying? Every single question was interesting, thoughtful and, frankly, a challenge to answer. As great as the questions were, the discussion afterward was even better. Some children liked Toad’s strong stance on bullying, others liked that Frog would take the gentle approach with bullies. Some children thought it was enough that Toad would Skype military overseas from his bed. Most thought it was nobler that Frog was going to visit troops and see to it that they got to fly home more often to see their families. And so it went. The debate and discussion ended, posters were created and the upcoming elections continue to be a lunchtime topic in our classroom.

Today is Election Day. We have a private voting booth set up in the classroom, official looking ballots and even “I Voted” stickers with Frog and Toad pictured on them. I have a strong feeling that Frog will win, but we will let the people speak for themselves. After listening to their thoughtful debate questions, and their follow-up discussion, I trust those 6, 7, 8 and 9 year olds to pick a good president. Let’s hope the adults of our nation are as reflective and thoughtful when they cast their own ballots today.

Three

The Squeaky Voice is brought to you today by the number three.

Three- the number of times in my life I had a Popsicle stuck to my top lip. The first time was the worst, I was eight or nine years old and my lips were scabbed and bruised for weeks. The next time was more embarrassing than painful, as I stood at the bus stop on North Pleasant St. in Amherst, a slightly overweight twenty year old with a raspberry sorbet popsicle dangling from her upper lip. The third time was, well, tonight, I set my lips on a Coconut Fruit bar only to get them stuck there. One will never learn.

Three-the number of days my kids will be at the Olympic Park Institute on a classroom trip. I miss them already, but am selfishly enjoying some me time. Tonight blogging and reading. Tomorrow night pedicure, a glass of wine and a Mad Men marathon.

Three-the number of weeks Max and I will be on an elimination diet. He had allergy testing done and has twelve foods he is allergic to. We will eliminate them all for three weeks and then add them back in one by one (except for spinach, which is too severe to reintroduce).  I feel like he shouldn’t have to do it alone and so I am going to do it with him, wish us luck.

Three-the number of teachers checking kids’ heads for lice on a daily basis. Guess who is one of the lucky inspectors? Yes, the term nit-picking has new meaning in my life. My head itches just thinking about it. Oh dear, I hope that’s why it’s itching.

Three-the number of nightmares I had last night—two of them were about lice.

Three (times two)-the number of times Six snuck over to the neighbors’ house last week, went through their doggy door, tracked black muck through their house, got up on their couch and proceeded to take a nap.

Three-the number of pounds I have lost on the Flat Belly Diet. It feels good to get back into my jeans again.

Three-the amount of drafts I have written for my blog tonight, the first was a full essay on the dangers of popsicles, the second was about, well not about much really, the third is this one. I think I liked the popsicles best, but I deleted it.

Three-the number of weeks Mike has been in Baltimore. I miss him. Only nine days to go! (Note: Nine is a multiple of three).

Three-the number of coworkers I have in my classroom. A co-teacher, an intern and an assistant. They are all wicked awesome. I love my team!

Three (plus ten)-the number of miles I ran on Sunday as I completed my 14^th or 15^th Half Marathon!

Three-the number of weeks I am lobbying for in regards to our Europe trip next summer.  (A few days in Iceland, a week in Italy, a week in France and then wrap it up in Dublin on my 40^th birthday to run another half marathon).

Three-the number of household members who I miss like crazy right now.

Three- the number of times I’ve wanted to delete this entire blog entry for its total corniness, but I’ve got too much invested in it now.

Three slices-the average amount of pizza I can take down in one sitting (okay should rephrase it to say the average I will allow myself; truly I could probably take down 5).

Three- the number of times I have gotten up to look in the mirror at my lip. It looks better than it feels.

Three-the number of dumb endings I have come up with and scrapped.

One- the ending I’m decidedly going with. Good night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Six at 11

Sometimes, when I am in the middle of a frustrating or embarrassing situation, I look on the bright side, thinking “Hey, at least I have something to blog about.” At eleven o’clock last night, as I was paddling around my lake (in my pajamas, in a thunder storm), I thought this very thing.

There are some background essentials you must know to fully appreciate the story. I spent close to a third  of the day in my car yesterday.  Grab a map if you aren’t familiar with Washington state and I’ll paint you a quick picture. I drove from my house in Port Orchard, dropped Maddee off at camp in Gig Harbor, went to University Place to do a puppet workshop, drove from UP (as the cool kids call it) to Bothell, sat in a three hour meeting, then hopped on I-405 at 5:20-prime traffic time-and arrived home around 7:30. With me so far?  Great. To boot, I fueled my body with McDonalds, ice cream and cookies. Nice, right?  By the time 9:30 rolled around (kids’ summer bedtime), I was exhausted and cranky. I just wanted to make a beeline for the bed.

I neglected to mention that Max was in tow all day. He was such a good sport coming with me to all my commitments with no complaints. He hadn’t slept well in a couple of nights and after being stuck in the car all day he, too, was exhausted and cranky. Of course, the core difference between a tired and cranky adult and a tired and cranky child is this: the adult wants to go to sleep, the child already at the point of no return, insists he isn’t tired. A smart, well-rested parent, wouldn’t engage in a battle.  You already know my state of mind.

So things weren’t going as smoothly as I’d like in the old Allen abode. After about thirty minutes of trying every trick in the book and then some, Max was asleep. In fact, it seemed every living creature in my household was settled in and sleeping. I was about to climb into bed myself, when I heard my dog, Six, barking and it sounded like she was outside. This was extremely unusual as Six prides herself on her beauty sleep, getting about 18 hours a day. She is always the first to retire, so why she wasn’t already nuzzled in at the foot of my bed, was beyond me.  It had started thundering in the distance and looked like it could rain at any moment so I went outside to see if she might be out there.   I could hear her, but couldn’t see her. I turned on the porch light, still couldn’t see her. I went out front thinking perhaps she somehow got out of the yard, still no sign of her. I decided to go to bed, she has a doggy door and I figured she’d let herself in as soon as it started to rain anyway. All I had to do was ignore her bark.  Right?

Right, I am not good at ignoring whines, complaints or barks. When I tell my brain we are going to ignore something it defies me and decides to hyper focus on it, until what I am ignoring gets so imbedded in my mind and under my skin that I…well, in this case, I get out of bed, and head back into the yard. I heard her again and it sounded like a distress bark. This changed my state of mind from annoyed to concerned. I looked and looked but couldn’t find her. I went back in and got a flashlight, put some shoes on and threw a sweatshirt over my pjs. I looked and saw the back gate was open! Ugh!!

  I would alternate from the front yard to the back, calling her name. Once in a while she’d answer my call with that distress bark. Poor Six! Where could she be? Cornered by coyotes? Taken against her will by some cult? A-ha, I found her. She was stuck in the salmonberry bushes next to our yard. We have a fence and then there is a thicket of trees and salmonberry bushes that eventually give way to our neighbors’ yard. This thicket butts up to the lake, as does our yard and our neighbors. It should be told that Six loves our neighbors and they love Six. Sometimes she swims over to their house, sometimes she sneaks out of the yard to go see them. She often is let in and makes herself at home by their fireplace.  It is my suspicion that she headed over and when no one let her in at 10:20 pm (the audacity!) she decided to make her way home via the thicket. She was probably stuck in some thorns and branches. I had a flashlight, but it was hard to tell for sure if she was caught in something.

The lake in this particular area is fairly shallow, probably just to my knees, but I really wasn’t in the mood to wade in and get her. I had no knowledge of how to get into the thicket from the other side and really no desire to do so anyway.  So, yep, I decided to set sail in our paddleboat and see if I could get over to the bushes and get her untangled. This might be a good time to mention that somehow the paddleboat was  wedged on top of one of our kayaks in the water. Now if it were daylight I would have noticed this situation right away, but my only light came from my flashlight and an occasional burst of lightning. I hopped in to the paddleboat, untied it and started paddling…going absolutely nowhere, of course.

Finally, I realized that only the stern of the paddleboat was in the water. The rest of it was on top of the kayak. I got back out of the boat, pulled the kayak out from underneath, practicing some words I hadn’t said in a while, and climbed back in. The paddleboat was making an unusual swishing sound and not moving very well. The strange thing about paddleboats is that sometimes water actually gets inside the hull , making it challenging to move. I suppose there’s a minor risk of sinking when this happens, which makes this story all the better, doesn’t it? And let’s add to the suspense by my admission that even though I can’t swim I was not wearing my life jacket.  The whole time that I was trying to get from point A to point B (it should have taken two minutes tops)  I heard the following:, a distressed dog bark, a rumble of thunder, a disconcerting swishing sound coming from somewhere in the bowels of the  boat, a distressed dog bark, a rumble of thunder, a disconcerting swishing sound , etc. And so it goes. All the while I couldn’t  help thinking about my cozy bed.   

When I finally got over to the thicket, I realized I didn’t have much of a plan. I had a vague idea to climb out, hold onto the paddleboat with one hand and try to get Six out of whatever trouble she was in with the other hand. Not ideal, but it’s the best I could come up with.  You would think Six would be elated to see me, but instead she turned her head and put her snout in the air, as if she expected to be picked up in a yacht or something.  From the paddleboat, I called her name and she did it again. I couldn’t understand it. She sometimes does this when she is in trouble, too, like if she doesn’t look at us, maybe we won’t see her. But why would she be in trouble, you ask?

 Well, let me tell you, at this point in my narrative, I have a good view of her and I can see that she is absolutely, not tangled or stuck in any way!! So, I came upon the ugly realization that her distress barks originated from the fact that she didn’t want to go back through the thorny thicket and she didn’t want to go for a swim either!  This is where Mike would say something like “You should have just left her then and she would have had to swim home eventually.” Well, I don't think so, dear reader! There was NO WAY I was going anywhere without that dog. Thunder, lake water, potentially sinking paddleboat and thorny bushes be damned, I was getting the dog. I called her name again and she slunk onto the bow of the paddleboat, climbed onto my lap (being sure to get my cute pjs nice and muddy) and we were back on the water. I got us moored up, climbed out of the paddleboat, missing the dry beach area by just inches, soaking my feet and my not-waterproof -Toms. I then had to give my beloved canine a bath before I could finally, finally, finally, climb into bed and get some sleep.

When, at last, I made it to my bed, Mike lifted his head and I could see his face was marked with deep sleep lines and he had a little bit of drool in the corner of his mouth. I was so jealous! That should be me with sleep carved into my face, drool running down my lips!! I guess if that were the case, there’d be nothing to blog about, would there? And isn’t that what it’s really all about?  

Private I

Whether we are old friends, new pals, or blog buddies; you have, by now, gathered some things about me. You have probably noted that I am a good person, peaceful, pretty smart and fun-loving. You have more than likely also gleaned that I have the athletic prowess of a drugged two-legged donkey and that I am a Rain Man with birthdates, anniversaries, phone numbers and the like, yet I cannot ever remember when my books are due back to the library. You probably know I like my house and I like being a wife, but I am far from a housewife. For example, my cleaning skills can be summed up with this (unfortunately) true little story: A friend called and asked if she could borrow our steam cleaner for her rugs. When she came over I handed her what I thought was the steam cleaner, apparently it was the vacuum. Wonh woh. And everyone knows I’m no Betty Crocker, but I must say my cooking skills are actually somewhat better than they once were. I can now add the ability to fry turkey bacon to the list of my gourmet culinary achievements.

Whether via blog, or just conversation, you almost certainly know that I have fallen off of two treadmills and a stationary bike. You may or may not know (but surely won’t be surprised), that I embarrassed myself, in my pjs, in front of vice presidential candidate (at the time) Joe Lieberman. You know I have accidentally hugged strangers, sang out incorrect song lyrics and have had some run-ins with spray tanning machines. You are aware that I am obsessed with fresh flowers, pizza, chocolate, The Muppets, and The Bradys. These personal little details either make you roll your eyes or want to pick me up and hug me, and squeeze me, and call me George.

So there, you know me fairly well, but if you know me really well, then you know that I’m actually a pretty private person. Sure, I can be loud, opinionated, witty (I hope), willing to engage in conversation, open-minded and a good listener, but that doesn’t make me any less private, it just sort of disguises it better. There are still many things that I just won’t share. Like what? you ask. Umm, hello, that’s private. Okay, okay, I am referring to things like my fears, concerns and shortcomings in things that really matter to me (being a mother, a daughter, a wife, an educator, a global citizen, a friend, a sister, etc).

I have a few friends who write honest, intimate, eloquent blogs about the very things I won’t. This afternoon, inspired by my friend Janna’s fantastic blog, I decided to open up and dig up the deep stuff. I took pencil to paper and wrote about some of my more cherished thoughts. I made sure the mood was right. I sat out in the grass at Chambers Creek overlooking the Puget Sound. The setting was beautiful, the sun warm on my arms, the grass cool on my legs, there were little children running barefoot on the lawn and birds chirping in my ears. If that’s not inspiration for some deep thinking, what is? So, I wrote and wrote for almost 90 minutes. And then I re-read my sage words and innermost fears. In all honesty, though, it wasn’t that good. I’m not saying this in the voice of someone with low self esteem or low self worth; I’m saying this with an honest critic’s eye. It lacked depth and warmth; it was one dimensional, looking more like a list of deficiencies and less like an inspirational piece. It just didn’t suit me.

Ah well, I gave it the old college try, (which for me sometimes meant setting out for class, getting halfway across campus, then turning around, going back to the dorm and crawling into my bed to watch The Doors movie for the 33^rd time). Anyway, I’ll save today’s earlier writing for another time. Who knows maybe my kids will use the pages to elicit sympathy points in their college essays or even better they can quote me in their memoirs. You know the perfunctory Blame Your Mother chapter. Most likely entitled something like “Frozen Pizza Again?” or “We Were Forced to Wear Kneepads to Cross the Street”.

For now, I’ll continue sharing humorous (hopefully) little accounts of my foibles and follies, my triumphs and achievements. Recent stories you probably haven’t heard, yet, like last week when I went on a kayak trip and within the first five minutes managed to crash into a pier (foible). Perhaps you’d like to hear about me getting back on track with my running after an injury (triumph). Another recent story involves me taking 50 minutes to get to a restaurant that, had I turned right instead of left, would have taken five minutes (folly). Or maybe you’d just like to join with me in celebrating today’s crowning achievement- learning the correct spelling of folly.