the pieces of my life

And that’s me. I turned 36 last week. And that means I’m closer to 50 than 20. How did this happen?

I am running. It’s tough going, but I’m doing it.

I’ve joined a marathon training group, Boston Fit, which is part of USA Fit. The program is fabulous. It’s a four-day a week running schedule, with the during-the-week runs by minutes, not by miles. Our long runs are done on Saturdays as a group, and let me tell you, running with a group makes a huge difference. I won’t say the miles melt away, but they certainly pass faster. So far, our long run is eight miles (nine this coming Saturday) and it feels pretty good. I run a lot faster with the group (especially since I’m not pushing Doodles in the Baby Jogger).

Of course, my individual runs have improved significantly as Adam got me a Garmin Forerunner 201 as a present. I haven’t had any problems yet with losing the GPS signal and I do a lot of running on a heavily treed trail (the Minuteman Trail). So far I’ve actually found it really motivational because knowing my pace and distance pushes me to go just that much faster or farther. I haven’t figured out half the features, but the ones I’ve used have been great. I used to wear a heart rate monitor, but I’ve read a lot lately that says the old working out in “zone” is a bunch of bunk and I never found it useful because I’ve never been able to run in my range.

Way back when, before I was a blogger, I used to bike ride. My buddy Eugene conned me into doing the single-day Seattle to Portland bike ride four years ago (only when we did it, it wasn’t the “Group Health STP”; it was simply to STP). I did it as a challenge to myself, to see how far I could push myself. And, truth be told, I did it because the boys were doing it and hell if I was going to let the boys do something without me (I’m a big believer in “anything you can do, I can do better”). But Eugene was an amazing coach. Every week he sent out a coaching newsletter chock full of information. Some was motivating talk. Some was training tips (I’ll never forget his advice to “imagine that there’s a rubber band on the top of a hill pulling you up”; I actually frequently think of this as I’m running up a hill). Some was encouragement of what we did (“and on Saturday, we rode 72 miles, and we all made it up the 65th street hill” [these are not exact quotes]). He gave suggestions for new training rides. It was such a treat.

Now, Eugene is going to run the NYC marathon with me (and when I say “with me,” I mean it in the same way that we rode the STP “together.” We started at the same time and managed to stay at the same pace for the first five minutes at which point he took off). So, Weegie, I need some encouragement. Where’s my newsletter?

Okay, so Papa wasn’t a rolling stone (he wasn’t even a Papa; he was a Peter), but Mama definitely was a hippie, or at least a hippie-wanna-be (hard to be a hippie with two kids, a mortgage, and a Mercury Cougar). She did her best to instill all those good old fashioned liberal ideas, using that good old fashioned tool of the liberals–song–into me and the Tweedle Twirp. It began with Peter, Paul, and Mary. It continued when we went to camp, where we sang songs such as “If I Had a Hammer.” And what liberal childhood is complete without Free To Be … You And Me?

So now, I fight the evilness that lurks in our house (aka Adam’s politics) using the powers my mother passed on to me. Adam, as he was influenced by his hippie-bashing father, doesn’t understand the potency of song (when I called Tweedles tonight to confer with her on the words of “If I Had a Hammer,” Adam said at one point, “She’s singing to you, isn’t she?” which is something he finds alien. As he said, “You know, I grew up in a household where not every statement inspired someone to break out into song.” Welcome to the Brown Family. I’m sure, right now this second, that sentence led my mother to think of some song that she’s now singing).

So, every morning, in my subversive suburban way, I play “Free to Be… You and Me” for Doodles. I skip over the spoken word parts–don’t get me wrong; these are still some of my favorite parts (how can you not love, “Hi, I’m a baby.” “What do you think I am, a loaf of bread?” “You could be, what do I know? I was just born five minutes ago!” but at ten months, Doodles doesn’t appreciate my spoken word, never mind a CD’s spoken word). He rolls around on the diaper changing table to “Every girl in this land, grows to be her own woman.” He pulls himself up on his toy to “When I grow up, will I be pretty? Will you be big and tall?” He yanks all the books off the shelf to “Some mommies are ranchers or poetry makers.” He wails and we call it a morning at “A doll said, William, is what I need, to wash and clean, and dress and feed.” (I consider this proof for the “he’s straight” side; other proof: he pulls off bibs and hats; the kid despises accessories. Evidence on the “he’s gay” side: he flirts more with boys than girls. Either’s okay with me; I just hate not being in the know.)

Adam doesn’t understand the power of the music. Oh, but he’ll learn. In five years, Adam’s not going to know what hit him when Doodles demands universal health care and day care and a complete overhaul of the welfare system. And I’ll credit it all to Marlo Thomas.

Here I am, another Wednesday night, and I just don’t have it in me to do anything creative here. I’m beat. Doodles has become quite the active little monkey (although he hasn’t been quite the Holy Terror this week that he was last week), and I’m spending my days chasing him saying, “Oh, that drawer that you keep slamming your fingers into is no fun! Try playing on this nice soft carpeted area” and “Oh, standing holding the bathtub is so passe. Try playing on this nice soft carpeted area” and “Oh, that open staircase you’re heading for isn’t interesting enough to crawl down. Try playing on this nice soft carpeted area.” You get the idea. That and he was up at 4 a.m. today and all his naps were in the stroller so it wasn’t like I got to crash out while he was snoozing. I can barely keep my eyes open. My free time has been minimal because I’ve had a lot of work due. And I had to update Doodles photos online. Takes longer than you would think–all his pictures are good ones.

So, if I were in the mood to blog, here’s what I would have been blogging about this week.

• Running: I’m movin’ and groovin’ on my marathon training.
  
• Weaning: So many feelings about this, so little energy to write about it.
  
• Doodles’s friend had a first birthday party at our house
  
• My utter spaciness: Things like needing to call Adam when I’m halfway down Route 2 because I realize I forgot to turn off the hose that I was using to fill Doodles’s pool.
  
• I thought there was more, but all I can think of is sleep.

Maybe next week my mojo will be back. Till then, get some sleep. Oh, wait, that’s me.

When he was just a wee one, we started calling him Doodlebug. He was such a tiny cute thing and, simply, he was a Doodlebug. But then he grew and he started gaining more boy qualities, and Doodlebug didn’t really seem to fit anymore. He was more of a Doodles, as he began to grab and smile and laugh and develop a personality. And now as he enters late babyhood, Doodles doesn’t fit so much either. He’s bigger, more verbal, and just not as passive as he once was. So he needs a new nickname. And the only one that comes to mind is the Holy Terror .

And, oh, what a Holy Terror he is. Mobility is not a pretty thing. That little monkey is not only crawling everywhere (still commando style), he’s suddenly developed a knack for pulling himself up. On everything that I don’t want him to pull himself up on. We have toys just the right size for him to grab onto. The couch is his. The sides of his crib are readily available. The carpeted stairs are nice and padded. So what does he want? Oh, the stereo looks nice. The sides of the bathtub beckon. The new toy rack that hasn’t yet been anchored to the wall. The Jumperoo but only when another child is actually jumping in it. When I offer him lots of opportunities to stand upstairs where the floors are carpeted, he refuses. But on the hardwood floors downstairs, he can’t get enough. Do you know how loud the smack of a baby’s head hitting the floor is? It’s not a pretty sound.

Of course, if it were just an issue of pulling up, that wouldn’t be a problem. But it’s also, well, everything else. There are the temper tantrums my formerly angelic child now throws when he’s dropped his toy/spoon/my keys/teething biscuit for the fifteenth time and I refuse to pick it up again. The separation anxiety that hits in the middle of the night. The solid food strike he’s been on for the past week and a half (he has this adorable way of clamping his mouth closed, shaking his head, moaning angrily “nnnnn,” and waving his hand in front of his face to block the incoming spoon). The “I want to do it myself” for holding his spoon and picking up his bowl of cereal (he won’t eat it, but he’s perfectly happy to grab it and fling it onto the floor). The beginnings of him weaning himself (a plastic bottle is better than me? I’m insulted). The melodic way he opens the kitchen cabinet doors and then slams them close (and then gets surprised that when he shuts the door on his fingers that it actually hurts).

Okay, so it isn’t all bad. He laughs and giggles more. His curiosity is incredible. The look of wonder on his face when he accomplishes something new is amazing. And he’s so interactive now. It’s simply fun. Or at least it will be once I invest in a baby helmet for the HT and a pair of ear plugs for myself.

You’d think that on the days that Doodles is in day care, my clothing would be able to remain stain-free. Well, you’d think wrong.

I promised a round-up for graduation, but really, I’m not feeling terribly moved to write about it. It was last Thursday, which already feels like a lifetime ago.

I was amazed at how many people came out to see the ceremony–family flew in from as far away as Australia. I never thought graduating from grad school was such a big deal; the reward was the work done, not the piece of paper. I didn’t bother walking in my grad-school ceremony nor has anyone in my family. But then, this isn’t any old school graduation. This is Hah-vahd B-school.

We skipped the big event in Hah-vahd Yahd because it was huge and there was nothing we’d be able to see. I didn’t think Doodles would have the patience for it. But we met up with Adam and his family in time for the luncheon. What was HBS thinking? 894 students. And their families. And the luncheon is in a huge tent in which they’ve set up tables and put out covered plates of food at each place. We’re walking on wet grass with the stroller searching for five empty places at a table. Hell, we would have taken just five meals that we could have snagged to take outside to sustain ourselves for the tedium–um, I mean thrill–of the graduation ceremony. It was a moronic set-up, only to be compounded by the fact that when we did find five seats, the meals were highly mediocre.

Then there was graduation itself. What a chaotic event. When you have 894 graduates, the procession tends to take a while. The audience was enthusiastic in the beginning but as the afternoon droned on, people would suddenly give a cheer when their grad crossed the stage, and then they’d vamoose. By the time poor Section J crossed, the place was deserted. Thank goodness Adam was in Section A–first across the stage, which was only important because Adam walked with Doodles, and by the time Section B made it to stage, Doodles was fast asleep in his stroller. As a bonus, Adam got singled out for a mention in the Dean’s speech.

What can I say about the past two years that I haven’t said already? Adam really enjoyed it and it wasn’t a horrible experience for me. I made some good friends and I got to poke fun at people who deserved a bit of fun poked at them. I’m sure I’ll come up with more as I have more time to reflect on it, but for now, I have no regrets about coming out here and being a “partner,” but on the other hand, I’m glad it’s over.

At Adam’s section graduation party last night, I was told that my blog is less interesting now that I don’t mock the MBAs. I do feel bad that I’ve let them down in this way, but frankly MBAs just don’t seem as worthy of my attention these days: I find Doodles infinitely more interesting than the MBAs. Of course, when you think about it, Doodles isn’t all that different from an HBS student. Doodles likes to keep odd hours, he throws temper tantrums when things don’t go exactly his way, he’s always absolutely certain about whatever it is he’s doing, and he has a thing for b*reasts. Low blows? Perhaps, but since Adam’s class graduates tomorrow, I have to sneak in what I can. I’ve promised some of his classmates to do one final send up so look for a graduation summary next week.

Doodles is wearing me out this week. So much so that I don’t even have the energy to blog about it this week.

As the married female partner of my husband (anyone have a good synonym for the evil word “wife”?), I want to share in his interests. And as anyone who knows my husband will verify, Adam has just one interest: the Red Sox. I think Adam will back me up when I say that I’ve made an effort to support the Red Sox. True, I refuse to go to Fenway until they serve sushi, but I can identify Johnny Damon, can fake No-mah’s pre-batting routine, and I know who the only Jew on the team is and how long Manny Ramirez was breastfed for (Gabe Kapler and four years, respectively. I don’t know why I know those, but I do). I encourage him to watch the games (although I do complain when he starts to yell at the TV–I usually think he’s talking to me and I come running, only to find out that Pedro is pitching a bad game or someone struck out). I bought Doodles his first, second, and third Red Sox outfit. I embrace–nay, enable–Adam’s addiction.

Adam has had the last four weeks off (he graduates tomorrow and starts work on Monday). Out of the 672 free hours, I estimate he spent 196 hours sleeping. So out of the 476 hours remaining, Adam spent 333.20 hours watching baseball, listening to radio about baseball, reading his baseball boards, writing baseball posts, and thinking about baseball (note, I kindly didn’t count the sleeping hours he dreams about baseball).

So, the other day, I peered over Adam’s shoulder as he sat glazed at his laptop screen. “What are you looking at?” Adam has been a member of The Sons of Sam Horn for a bunch of years now and I wanted to see what he does on there. The first surprise is that Adam has posted 1,522 times. “That’s not a lot!” Adam defensively argued. And he’s right, I guess. It’s just 1.389 posts a day. Every single day. For the past three years.

Reading over some of the threads, I became convinced that I know at least as much about the Red Sox as some of the dolts on the board. (Hey, I can blindly recite, “Pedro Martinez is the greatest pitcher who’s ever lived.” Of course, I don’t exactly understand how that fits in with what Adam tells me Pedro’s been doing this season, but I don’t like to dig too deeply.)

“I’m going to join the board!” I told Adam. “I have things to say!” In the four years that Adam and I have been together, I have never seen a such a look of raw terror on his face.

“Uh, okay,” he said. Then doing some quick thinking, he added, “but I think there’s a waiting list to join. It’s a really popular board.” And sure enough he flipped over to a page and it reads, “SoSH is not currently accepting new members. There are 7,000+ applicants in the pool and we’re overwhelmed.” (What kind of board has an application that needs to be approved?)

For the record, I don’t buy it. I think it’s a conspiracy rigged up by The Man Show and Adam to keep me out. I think he anticipated my request and they concocted an elaborate dummy page to discourage me from joining.

(A side note: when looking for the links for Sons of Sam Horn, I popped over to the site. I noticed a feature that reads, “265 visitors in the last 15 minutes,” with a list of the visitors. Guess who’s screenname was on there? So I guess that’s 1523 posts.)

(Side note to the side note: He’s been busier than I thought. He’s up to 1528 posts, which means he’s exceeding his 1.389 posts a day.)