Scabs

There's a part of being a human that most people don't really like dealing with. It's the part at the end. The part where you cease being a human and become something else. Whatever that may be.

And then, and then, well, there's the part that we as the humans left get to deal with. The absence. The space. The hole. Literally and figuratively.

Call came in the other night. I knew what it was before I answered. Mostly because, who calls any more? Especially later in the evening.

My friend, my person, her voice breaking, telling me her dad had died. Suddenly. Her dad who I had known since 7th grade. Her dad who sent me a card when my dad died. The last time I saw him, he was laughing while drinking Two Buck Chuck over ice. That's the memory I plan on keeping.

With the news, all the memories come crashing in around me. Waves and a riptide, pulled out to sea, struggling to keep my head up. The late night calls. The hurried packing. My dad dying. Feeling it again.

The pain does begin to subside, the waves get easier to navigate although the date still has triggers. The scab has gotten smaller; the scar larger. And even though the scab has shrunk, it still hurts when it's pulled off. It still bleeds. Much less but still there. I vacillate on this. Is it good to feel better or is it terrible to feel better? Are we supposed to be miserable or celebrate the life that we have? I'm sure the ideal is somewhere in the middle.

Reaching the middle is easier on some days than others.

Family Ties

I don't write much about the family. It's not intentional. Just hard to do. Most people know I come from a big family and a small town. If you don't and are interested, feel free to review.

Small town, huge family.

Some of the family bond may be the town we come from. We all definitely have the small town pragmatism in common.  We're are all smart asses. That's genetic. Lots of tall, blonde and blue eyes running around... We pretty much all look the same and love beer, wine and whiskey. And, I won't say there hasn't been a jar of moonshine passed around once or twice...

Moonshine Maidens.

We communicate with sighs, groans, eye rolls and sarcasm.

We're loud. Really, really loud. So damn loud. Like shake the house loud. In the best possible way.

Always smiling.

We're all cousins. Dumped in a bucket together called cousin. We don't keep track. 1st cousin is no more special or important than 2nd or 9th. A cousin is a cousin. Some cousins are actually called Aunts and Uncles. Makes it easier to track that way - generational. There are a lot of us. If I had to guess I'd say it's 907. Or so. In addition to the cousins, we've got a couple thousand aunts and uncles. True aunts and uncles, not to be confused with cousins who we call 'aunts and uncles'. It all makes sense. Really. Trust me.

We're scary, possibly terrifying. When one brings 'home' a new person, like a boyfriend or girlfriend, it's got to be intimidating. They may think they are just coming for a low key Sunday dinner. What they don't understand is that a low key Sunday dinner to us is for 50 people. Invited to a family barbecue? Hell, that could be 100 or more. Best of luck new person! Better hope we like you!

Cousins!

We see each other at least once a year for what is pretty much a mandatory family event where we mix our love of hanging out with our die hard need for competition. Our other get togethers tend to be weddings or funerals. Although lately it has been funerals.

I'm looking forward to the next round of weddings...

Going to be awhile though as the next generation is pretty young.

So, twice a year or so a big band of cousins gets together and essentially takes over a town - we've been asked to either quiet down or leave on a number of occasions. Turns out we're just as loud sad as we are happy.

We lost one from our cousin bucket this winter. One of my faves. Of course, we all came together. We  ate, drank, talked and cried. Were so loud we shook a house. It's how it's supposed to be.

Together.

Sunday Dinner.

12!

Holy Hell. The boy has a fuzzy mustache. Just enough to make his lip look a little dirty. And me to feel a little sad. He's growing up. 5'2". 12 years old in less than 24 hours. 12! He's literally 10 times bigger than he was at birth. He wears Adult Small. Men's shoes. Which for the tiny bit of additional material has an amazing price increase.

A 'tween'.

If I've said it once, I've said it a hundred times... They say 'tween' on television because they can't say asshole. Not to say he's that bad, but he's a little bit of a ball of hormones. Something that was fine on Tuesday is a disaster on Wednesday. I don't know how he doesn't pull muscles with his eye rolls. They're spectacular.

He's so good at, "Whaaaaat? Mommmmmmmmmm?" that it feels like I personally trained him to push my own buttons.

But then, he'll come and insist upon a hug. Tell me that he loves me and we'll snuggle on the couch and watch some television. He's sweet to his core and I hear from his teachers that he's a great kid. He works hard at school. And honestly, I think he's a great kid, too.

His gift this year? A kayak. He wanted a laptop. Felt like him floating around in the lake was safer than internet access. Because, boobs. And a conversation I'm not ready for. 

Manly.

Ladies man.

Man's man.

Man about town.

As fun as four

On New Year's Eve 2016, I had a thought.

Probably the same thought a whole bunch of bicentennial babies had...

Shit.

I'm turning 40 this year.

Now, I'm not super big on age but I'll admit, 40 is bothering me. I don't really know why. I think because 40 seems like I should be so grown up. But, really, I'm about 12 years old. Or so I feel. I'm just a kid parading around in an adult suit. Making decisions.

Or at least it feels like it... As I sit here watching The Muppets.

I love the Muppets. I've seen all the movies. Even the 90's kind of crappy ones. (Muppets From Space, I'm looking at you.) I get that the new show is mostly geared to adults. And, I'll be honest and say that my kids do watch it from time to time. (Go judge somewhere else, judge-y moms.) They don't get the adult jokes, I get to watch my favorite show and we're watching all snuggled up on the couch together. Win/win.

Pure Joy.

I loved the show in the 70's. I wanted nothing more for my fourth birthday than a stuffed Kermit. Which I got. Because, there's a possibility I was and am spoiled. My mother searched all over and ended up finding Kermit at the Lacrosse Hardware Store. Just a few feet from her hair salon.

I have photos of that birthday party. I'm not sure that I've ever been as happy as I was in that moment. Hugging that Kermit for the first time.

That year we celebrated my birthday a couple days early. We were preparing to move and our mother was going out of town to look at houses. We did a combined brother/sister birthday party on May 17th, 1980. He turned 11, I turned four.

The next day, May 18th, 1980 we were playing near our grandparents house. I put Kermit in a box under some bushes near the back door of Norma's house. For safe keeping. Then went and played.

The sky turned black. We were quickly ushered up the hill to grandma and grandpa's house to wait out what was assumed to be a flood. It wasn't. It was a volcano.

We spent the day inside. Grandma was keeping us busy, no doubt - so we wouldn't be scared. Our mom was away and we were being covered in ash.

Around bedtime I remembered. And freaked.

You want to know what a hero is? A hero is a grandpa who will go out in the falling ash to find a Kermit doll in a box under some bushes near the door of Norma's house. In the dark. With sketchy directions from a four year old.

I still have that Kermit. He's on the list of things to grab if the house ever catches on fire. Right after kids and dogs. Kermit.

36 years later, I still need a Kermit hug from time to time.

Here's to hoping that 40 is as awesome as four. Less volcano would be nice.

Still together after all these years.

I just felt like running...

Not totally true... I don't really remember what started the 'running thing'. But, pretty sure there was peer pressure involved.

My goals a year or so ago - keep running 10k's. Run a 1/2 marathon when I was 39. Marathon at 40.

Ended up a few weeks ahead. Ran the first 1/2 just before I turned 39 and the marathon is scheduled for five weeks before my 40th birthday.

If you know me at all you know being ahead of schedule is generally a good thing. Although daunting.

The bummer of training is how many practice miles there are. A lot. Unfortunately I can't just go out and run 26.2 on the day... 

And so, on Saturday I ran 14.2. Only a little over a mile further than a 1/2. But, damn. I felt it. Trying to tell myself, hey, it's only 12 more miles on the big day...

This whole marathon thing started when Pheidippides ran from Marathon to Athens to tell of the victory against Persia. He announced the victory then died.

Um, wait. What? He died?

Shit.

He had run about 150 miles over the two days prior. He was 40 years old. Turns out at the time life expectancy was 40-45. 

When I mentioned this to a friend. The possibility of just dropping dead... She was quick with, 'he was an old Greecian who probably hasn't had water in days. You're going to let that intimidate you?'

Um, yeah. Probably.

I'm thinking I'll rethink my goal for the actual race day. 

Finishing is winning. Oh, and not dying.