the pieces of my life

And I didn’t bust!

Well, we survived another Halloween (photos posted). I imagine it will only get worse and worse, but this year was not a pretty year given Doodles’s competing all-greed for things chocolate vs. his all-fear of people in masks.

Last year I took Doodles and Pie on a hayride at our local farm stand. Oh, how he loved it! We went on it twice. For the entire year, he asked, “Is it time for the spooky hayride? Can we go on the spooky hayride?” and I’d have to explain that it only happens at Halloween time and I promised him we could go the next Halloween.

Fast forward to this Halloween. We go on the spooky hayride, me, the Pie, and Doodles. The Pie is completely nonchalant. Looking around. Observing calmly. Hanging out. Doodles is sitting next to me, a little unsure of things. And then the scary farmer man–with a seriously scary mask–comes chasing us. Doodles doesn’t do anything except stiffen and lean into me a little. I spend the rest of the ride saying, “It’s just a man in the mask. Just a man in the mask! Nothing to be afraid of; it’s just a man in a mask.” Towards the end of the ride, the farmer gets into a tractor decorated with corn, hay, and whatnot to chase the hayride. Doodles seems fine. We finish the ride, the Doodles gets a lollipop, Pie an apple. We walk around, look at the animals, do our produce shopping.

And then the nightmares begin. The no-longer-just-waking-up-to-climb-into-Mommy-and-
Daddy’s-bed waking but the lying-in-bed-wake-up-Pie-screaming-and-crying-Moooooommmmmmy!-come-get-me! waking. And the next time we head to our local farm stand, Doodles protests. “I don’t want to go.”

Me: But you love to go!
Doodles: I don’t want to go.
Me: Don’t you want to pick out your Shabbat cookie? [Doodles gets an after-dinner treat after dinner every Friday night]
Doodles is clearly torn here.
Doodles: Where is the hayride?
Me: The hayride isn’t going now. It’s not open yet for the day.
Doodles: Is the hayride sleeping?
Me: Sure! The hayride is sleeping, getting ready for more kids to ride it.
Doodles: Do we have to ride it?
Me: No. Did you want to ride it?
Doodles: No! Where is the farmer and the corn car?
Me: He’s not here. Remember, it’s only a man in a mask!
Doodles: Is the farmer sleeping?
Me: Maybe! I do know that he’s not here now.
Doodles: Where’s the corn car?
Me: Away. Do you want to pick out your cookie?
Doodles thinks about it.
Doodles: Okay.

So I was definitely feeling trepidation about trick-or-treating. Doodles and Pie were both witches this year (when I asked Doodles what he wanted to be for Halloween, he said in no uncertain terms, “I want to be a witch! And Pie wants to be a witch, too!”), but when asked, he’ll emphasize he’s a friendly witch, even though Adam’s taught him to say, “I’m going to get you, my pretty!” Surprisingly, though, trick or treating was fine. The year before last it was quiet so last year, I didn’t buy a ton of candy. Of course we had a steady stream of trick or treaters all night and I worried we were going to run out of candy. So this year I bought a ton and it was another quiet year. The plus side to this was not many people out in masks, so Doodles was fine, except that we only went to a handful of houses (we only went where we knew the neighbors) and he would have preferred a few more.

And now we have a house full of candy that I’m going to end up eating. Luckily we rescued Doodles and Pie from the evils of candy around, as we borrowed an idea from one of Adam’s coworkers. On Halloween night, after the trick-or-treating is done and everyone is asleep, the Switch Witch will come. The Switch Witch is a nice witch. All we need to do is bundle all our candy and leave it for her on the front porch (because I am so not getting into the concept of a witch entering the house. A friend of Doodles was told about the Tooth Fairy and she freaked at the idea of a fairy simply coming into their house, to the point where her father had to explain that the Tooth Fairy only comes if she’s invited and that he went onto the Web and removed her name from the Tooth Fairy’s list, so she won’t come to their house). Then the Switch Witch comes and takes the candy and in its place leaves a toy that won’t rot teeth and make children overly hyper. Doodles asked about her all night. “Is the Switch Witch sleeping now? Is the Switch Witch a nice witch? Is the Switch Witch here yet?” Brilliant, huh? If only the Switch Witch took care of grown-ups, too.

Let me say this off the bat: I completely brought this upon myself. I have no one I can blame. I placed the curse upon myself.

I had the gall–the gall, I say!–to think to myself, “Wow, after the last action-packed marathon, this marathon will really give me nothing to blog about. I know all the ins and outs of the marathon. I know the tricks. I’m fully prepared. I’ll have nothing to write but, ‘I ran my second marathon and I had a time of XXX.'”

Which is how I jinxed this marathon. Yes, that’s right. This marathon is completely jinxed for me.

Let’s start with the sinus infection. I’m feeling probably 80 percent better. But that doesn’t bother me as much as the words of my doctor, which keep running through my head. “You may not feel healthy enough to run. You may not feel healthy enough to run. You may not feel healthy enough to run.” The power of positive thinking right? Yeah, right.

Then there was the missing registration card. The ING site said, “All U.S. registration cards will be mailed the week of Oct. 13.” So I waited. And waited. No card. Where is my card? The card that is essential for getting my race number at the expo? No card. Then, this week, an e-mail arrived that read, “If you didn’t get your registration card in the mail, you can use this e-mail,” which leads me to believe they didn’t mail all the cards out. Okay, that’s all right. Taken care of.

Then I called the hotel this week to confirm our reservation. Oh, they had it all right. For twice as long as we had intended on staying. Thank goodness I called because they had us down as arriving on Thursday. Can you imagine how thrilled I would have been had I shown up on Friday only to find that they not only charged my credit card the $358 for Thursday night but had since given away our room? Okay, that’s all taken care of. We should be good for our Friday arrival.

I printed out my registration card and took a good look at it for the first time. There I was. Yep. Jennifer Brown. Age 38. It’s me. But wait? No bus pass? I know I signed up for a bus pass as it’s the only reasonable way to get to the start line! What a pain in the neck. I’ve got to make sure to remember to buy a bus pass at the expo instead of nicely and conveniently having it printed on my bib number.

I know, I know. You’re thinking, “This really isn’t all that big a deal. You’re stressing over nothing.” Which would be true if it weren’t for the final thing. The ultimate jinx. The voice-from-above “I gave you plenty of signs you shouldn’t run and yet you ignore me” jinx.

I took a closer look at my registration card. I noted my bib number. Last time I ran my bib number was 47474. A nice high number because I had put down a very slow predicted race time. No biggie. But this time my race number is W409. That’s odd. Did they change the numbering schematic? And then I look one more time. There it is on the side, in all caps. “WHEELCHAIR START.” Um, hello? HELLO!!!! I DON’T THINK SO!

I e-mailed the New York Road Runners, of course, and I received back a lovely terse e-mail that read, “Our records indicate that you signed up as handcrank when you applied. pls. go to the help desk at the expo.” No, I did NOT sign up as handcrank. I may be a handcrank but I do not use a handcrank and I fully intend on completing this marathon on my own two feet. I have tremendous respect and admiration for wheelchair runners; I’m just not one of them!

While it’s certainly provided much fodder for the household banter (“Do we have plans for next Wednesday? I want to go out for dinner with a friend.” “Well, I suppose it’s okay. I’m sure I’ll have managed to navigate bathtime in the wheelchair by then”), it’s turning me into a stress monkey. Which in a way is good, because I’m not stressing about the race itself. But it’s one more hassle to deal with and I find myself being extra careful when I run because I’m convinced I’m going to break a limb. (Again, the voice from above: “You wanted a wheelchair start? Well, I’ll give you a wheelchair start!”) Adam’s convinced it’s no big deal and they’ll fix it at the expo but I’m pretty sure they’re just making me go to the help desk to publicly humiliate me and strip me of my running shoes.

One big jinx. And for those of you in NYC, come watch me. You can’t miss me. I’ll be the only wheelchair runner not in a wheelchair.

I wish you could hear the screeches of Pie Pie when she thinks she’s gotten away with something. The screams of anger when she doesn’t get away with it. The random babbling when she’s telling herself stories. The way she sings “Row Row Row Your Boat,” “Tap Tap Sweetie,” and “Happy Birthday” when she’s in the mood to dance but there’s no music on. The sound of her raspberries against my belly when she wants to make me laugh. The smack of her lips when she gives you a kiss. Just be happy you didn’t hear the thud of her head smacking against the floor when she managed to catapult herself over the side of our living room arm chair. That was just ugly.

So after it all–the tears, the all-night feedings, the Ferber appointments–we’ve given in. Night after night for the past two weeks, a little munchkin has been squashed between me and Adam. I wake up with Curious George wedged in my face, feet crammed beneath my legs, and a little arm thrown against my side. Yes, that’s right: while Pie Pie sleeps her way through the night peacefully in her crib, Doodles has returned to the family bed.

Ever since Doodles was sick, he’s been wanting to be in our bed. And he has this little blackmail he holds over us. His screaming. Whereas we let Pie Pie scream when she wakes up to her heart’s content, knowing that Doodles will sleep through it, we don’t have that luxury in reverse. Now that the Pie is sleeping, we guard and protect that sleep with everything we’ve got and the Doodles knows it. So as the cries build, we run in to grab him before he wakes up the sleeping Pie.

I remember when we first got married and I asked Adam, “Why do people need such big beds? I mean, we always sleep crammed together in the middle anyway!” So we bought a lovely double bed. I get it now. I really, really get it. Do they make beds bigger than king sized?

One child is supposed to go to bed at 8:30, but she wants to go to bed at 7. The other child is supposed to go to bed at 7:30, but he wants to go to bed at, oh, never.

Doodles loves to listen to music and dance. I’m sick of most of his music, so I’?m slowly trying to infiltrate that little brain of his and plant in some good music. Unfortunately I realized I don’t know any good music. Instead I’?ve taught Doodles how do the “Time Warp”?, how to “jump back, get down, go round and round and round, whoo!” and to shake his tush to the finest of ‘?80s tunes. That boy is so screwed at his senior prom.

Doodles likes to use his “gelectric toothbrush.”

Pie has mastered the “point and screech.” When she sees something she wants, her little finger shoots out at rapid-fire speed and she emits this high-pitched “eee eee eee eee” that drowns out the sound of the construction vehicles working on the house next door. She knows what she wants. Bet she’ll never let a sinus infection interfere with her plans!

Doodles was watching his new favorite show, Kipper, and on it, Kipper was vacuuming. Doodles asked me, “What’s that?” And I didn’t know whether I should be fearful or proud that indeed I don’t think Doodles has ever seen a vacuum. Dirt rules!

The world is conspiring against me. My children are healthy. I am not. Last weekend was the weekend of my final long run before the marathon. I spent all last week on and off with a fever and was stressed I wouldn’t get my final long run did. On Sunday morning, I was determined to have my long run whether or not I was up for it. I did pretty well–22 miles at a 10:47 pace. That may have been a mistake. (Not that I ever make mistakes.)

I completely relapsed yesterday and I made it to the doctor’s office today (I’m one of those people who hates to call the doctor–I’ve gotten over that with my kids but I hate calling for myself) where I discovered I have a sinus infection. Of course, I couldn’t take the original drug the doctor recommended, thanks to that gigantic screaming toddler who has made herself at home on my chest. I’m allergic to her second choice drug, so her third choice drug it is. The kicker, though, is when she said, “Don’t be surprised if you’re not healthy enough to run your marathon. There’s a good chance you won’t be feeling well enough to do it.” As if! Cue the Chariots of Fire music, because no silly sinus infection is going to keep me from the starting line… and the finish line. Silly doctor!

Sweetie Pie had her third–and no, not final–visit with Dr. Ferber today. He nicely said, “You’re almost there! Why don’t you come back one more time.”

So what did she do tonight? Let’s just say I’m typing this over her nursing little body that is clearly not asleep.

Yeah, we’re almost there. As long as “there” is a place with no sleep and teenagers who are still nursing. Almost there!

You like my new tattoo? The one across my forehead reading, “Sucker”?

For Doodle’s sick day, he got to watch pretty much as many videos as he wanted. When I was a kid and I was sick, my mom would bring the TV into my room, and I had free reign with it. Well, since Doodles was (is) legitimately sick (103 degree fever) I pulled out all the kid videos I had from my Amazon days and let him go wild. One of the videos was Sesame Street: Let’s Eat and in it, a bunch of kids eat pasta.

Doodles: I want to eat pasta! I’m going to have pasta for lunch.
Me: Really?
Doodles: Yeah, I’m going to have pasta for lunch.
Me: Do you want the fun-shaped ravioli?
Doodles: No, I want grown-up pasta.
Me: Are you sure? Are you really going to eat it?
Doodles: Yep!!
Me: I’m happy to make you pasta, if you really think you’ll eat it. You’re really going to try it?
[Today’s blog is just full of things you already know the answer to, isn’t it?]
Doodles: Yeah! I like pasta! I want to help you make it.

After deciding that he preferred linguine over spaghetti, after taking a couple of pieces of raw linguine and breaking them into tiny pieces, after being upset when I won’t let him near the hot stove, the pasta is done.

Doodles: Make it cold. I don’t want it hot.
Me: [running it under cold water] No problem! Do you want your pasta on a plate or in a bowl?
Doodles: Um… on a plate.

Plate makes it to the table. Doodles makes a great show of twirling his pasta on his fork. And twirling it. And twirling it.

Me: Do you need help eating it?
Doodles: No.
Twirling. Twirling. Twirling.
Doodles: Ac-tu-alllly [and, really, you have to see this to truly appreciate it the way he draws out the word; it’s always accompanied by the nose scrunch]… ac-tu-allllly I want something else to eat. Ac-tu-alllly I don’t like pasta.
Me: How do you know you don’t like pasta? You’ve never tried pasta. You can’t say you don’t like something until you’ve tried it.
Doodles: I don’t like pasta. I would like something else.
Um, yeah. Ac-tu-allllly, so would I.

It used to be I ran for “me” time. Now I run for “sanity” time. According to my training schedule, I was supposed to do five miles this morning. I did eight. As I said to Adam when I returned, “Sorry for taking so long. I started running and, well, I didn’t want to come home.”

And why would I want to come home? My work schedule has been screwed. Last Monday I didn’t get to work because of Yom Kippur. This Monday I didn’t get to work because of Columbus Day. Next Monday I don’t get to work because I have jury duty (jury duty!), which I had postponed from a year ago, not knowing how swamped I’d be with work (you can only postpone once; I was actually game to go last year but was told there was nowhere I could pump and if I showed up with my baby I could be cited for contempt of court). So that’s three weeks of one work day after about a month of no work days because of Doodles switch from day care to preschool. Since mid-August till now, I’ve had one week–one–that I’ve actually gotten both work days in my week.

So I needed my day today both because I don’t want to fall behind and because I simply enjoy working.

You know where this is going, right? I’ve got two–count ’em two!–sick children to contend with. No daycare. No preschool. No work. No happy children. No happy mommy.

What a day. I’m ready for another run.