the pieces of my life

…and Boston will never be the same. I’m happy for Adam, I’m happy for Doodles (who, as Adam says, won’t have to live his life in constant want for a win), and I’m happy for me because I can go to sleep.

Once upon a time, when I was a corporate drone, I had a wonderful officemate, even though on occasion he did drive me crazy with his pachinko music (and refusing to wear headphones when listening to said music) and his penchant for pumping me for information on my dating life (which, at the time, could be termed active). We both loved Virgin Radio, old flicks, and gummy bears. It was an office made in heaven and it unfortunately ended prematurely.

And even though he just wrote me the most horrific e-mail I have ever received (damn you, Simon, for putting those images in my head!), I still hold Simon in great esteem. So it was with tremendous happiness that I welcome his and Molly’s daughter to the world. And it is with just a touch of schadenfreude that I relish that he has no idea what’s about to hit him: sleepless nights, wifely hormonal mood swings, nonstop crying (and from the baby, too!). I think this makes up for the pachinko music.

And for the record, Adam would like to suggest the name Pedro or Curt. I’d like to suggest Pete or Geoff.

Welcome to the world, Lump. It’s going to be quite a ride!

…on blogging when every three seconds I need to humor my husband and pretend I’m listening to him. “The Fox announcer is a moron.” “Don’t jinx this!” “On Sons of Sam Horn, someone wrote…” “This idiot on this list I’m on just said…”

Sigh. In order to not jinx this, I’ll just say, one way or another, next week at this time, I’ll be free and I’ll have my TV back.

Now go take a peek at the lunar eclipse. It’s beautiful.

(with a little help from Mom at today’s Tots and Twos Gym)

With just five training runs until the big day, my drive is flagging. Part of the problem is that no one warned me that tapering is hard! In fact, I was relieved when my marathon-veteran friend Carly told me that she had a hard time tapering, because I was really starting to think it’s me. After all, my runs are now short, I’m feeling strong, and marathon day is in sight. But the thing is, the tapering runs make me feel unprepared. Another friend, Fishy, gave me this advice at the beginning of my training: It’s better to undertrain than overtrain. And I know that tapering is crucial to a safe marathon. But I can’t help but think, “Oh, I should be doing longer! I’m going to lose my strength! Maybe I should just do a few extra miles…”

I’ve been training with this program, Boston Fit, which is part of USA Fit, which has been around for a while. They’ve got the marathon thing down. But for the program, you do your long runs by miles on Saturdays and your weekday runs by time (so I’d run 40 minutes at tempo pace or 35 easy or 45 hills) and you only run four days a week. As a result, my runs are shorter than those on even the most relaxed training programs. However, I’ve been running consistently, I’ve done two 18-mile runs and one 21-mile run (which is one long run more than Boston Fit prescribes but my anxiety deemed it necessary)

And then there’s the tedium. Oh, the tedium! I am so sick of all my local routes that I’m going buggy. I run now in the mornings before Adam leaves for work, so I can’t go exploring for different routes. It’s just out the door and down the street. Every run in my neighborhood is a hill run (which I know I’ll appreciate during the marathon) but I just want a change of scenery!

Five training runs. Eleven days. I can do this….

Adam and I have been reading to Doodles since he was in utero. When he was born, we began reading to him two or three times a day. As he’s gotten older, we’ve been reading to him more often.

Yet Doodles hasn’t always been so enamored of his books. As soon as he was capable of moving those little arms in a coordinated manner, he would yank the book from my hands and shove it into his mouth. I would put him on my lap and stretch my arm all the way out so he couldn’t reach the book.

Then Doodles moved on. No longer did he want to eat the books, he just wanted to turn the pages. Rapidly. I’d start reading really, really fast to keep up with him: “Goodnightcombgoodnightmushgoodnightnobodygoodnightmush.” What was harder was when he’d flip the pages backwards (skipping a few in the process) and I’d try to still keep up: “Goodnightcombgoodnightroomtwolittlekittensinthegreatgreenroom.”

I’d enviously watch other kids who actually looked at books. People assured me someday Doodles would enjoy looking at books too. I didn’t believe that day would ever come.

Well, that day has come (as I’m sure you guessed, else why else would I be writing this post?). You can imagine my absolute delight that when I now say to Doodles, “Bring me a book and I’ll read to you,” he walks over the shelf, pulls out all of the books until he gets to one of his two favorites, and carries it over to me with a big grin. He holds the book out to me and then waits for me to pull him up onto my lap. He doesn’t turn the page until I’m done reading it and occasionally he wants me to read the whole book again. True, when I’m done, he then flips through the book backwards and then shoves it into his mouth (he had stopped mouthing everything, but now that he has three molars coming in, back into the mouth the books go!). But he truly seems to love books.

In the mornings, he yawns and stretches along with Hey, Wake Up. In the bath, he splashes when Mimi does. When the monkeys fall off the bed (one of the two favorites), he points to his head and then shakes his finger “no” as the doctor says, “No more monkeys jumping on the bed!” He joins in the “raaaah” of when the gorilla sings (and I confess, when we first were given this book, I thought it awfully simplistic, but I now see its charm and Doodles is a big fan). But when we read him his absolute favorite book (judged by how many times he asks for it), he actually just sits patiently and reverently listens. (And I’m delighted to say that his favorite is one of my favorites too. I wouldn’t have survived having to read that grammatical nightmare of a book over and over.) Don’t read the reviews of the book though; they give away the ending (seriously, though, this is such a great book).

Now that we have a book lover on our hands, I can’t stop buying them for him! (At least I get them used.) Anyone got any favorites to suggest (and we’re still in the board book phase–he can’t quite turn paper pages yet)?

I don’t mind so much getting e-mail forwards from my friends. Because then I simply mock and ridicule them until they stop, and I feel like I’ve helped society in some small way. But lately I’ve been getting e-mail forwards from people I can’t do anything about. (I’m talking here about the jokes, about the “why motherhood is hard but so rewarding,” about the “you’re a wonderful woman” e-mails–I swear I’ve gotten that last one twenty times. Hey thanks. I know I’m wonderful.)

I’m currently on the list of someone I’ve never met (and it is the nature of blogs that I won’t say who this person is or why I’m on this person’s list). How this person decided that I was the proper recipient for forwards I can’t figure out. I also have a relative who’s a big fan of the e-mail jokes. This relative has been in and out of the good graces of the family (that sounds so Mafioso, but really, it’s family with a lowercase f). I can always tell when this relative likes us (meaning the family as a whole) again because, wham! I’m back on the joke list.

I’m not even sure why I find these e-mails so annoying. I mean, I have a delete button that works just fine. I think it’s just the principle behind it. (I know I have about three friends who are going to be tempted to flood me with forwards as a direct response to this post; let me just remind you that what comes around, goes around.)

I love my husband, but I sometimes think my life would be easier had I married a Marlins fan… or a Dodgers fan… or any other team’s fan (with the possible exception of the Cubs). I’m not sure he’s going to survive tonight.

The marathon nightmares, I mean. I dreamt that I had already run 30 of the 36 miles (I know a marathon is only 26.2 miles; give me a break, it’s just a dream), and I realized I hadn’t had anything to drink. I felt amazingly good–I had floated through those 30 miles and I couldn’t remember anything about them in the dream–but figured I should take some of the lime green Gatorade offered in tiny cups at this water stop that seemed awfully small for the NYC marathon. And then, somehow, I wasn’t running anymore. I had gone home for a quick nap or something (and home was some NY apartment), and I panicked suddenly that I wasn’t going to finish the race. I charged out and tried to get back to the last place I remembered, which was mile 30. It was far away from where I was. I decided to tell people I had stopped because of stomach pain because that sounded a lot better than, “I went back to my apartment just because I felt like it.” I desperately asked people if they could take me back, only I didn’t have any money on me for a subway or a taxi. I kept asking taxi drivers if they’d take a credit card (figuring that I could simply use the number since I had it memorized). Finally someone said, “Oh, you’re in the race? I’ll take you!” I was so relieved, but then I freaked out when I realized he was also dropping off two other people elsewhere and he was dropping them off first. I woke up just as I was shouting at him, “Can’t you drop me off first? I’ve got to finish the race!”

Hmmm, I’m not showing any anxiety about the marathon. No, no. Not me.

Note to self: When invited to any event (such as pumpkin decorating) with Doodles that involves paint, don’t wear your new shirt.

Note to Adam: Next time I go out the morning after doing something (such as pumpkin decorating) with Doodles that involves paint, remind me that the jeans from the day before are covered with paint. Please tell me this before I put them on. And barring that, please tell me at least before I leave the house.

Note to self: Wearing jeans striped with green and yellow paint doesn’t make you look post-modern or punk. They just make you look like you dirty.