Youngest

Went home again. For a funeral.

Again.

Although the house isn’t where I grew up, the small town is. Purchased when I was 18; I was mostly on my own and out of the house at that point. But, it’s where my people are and importantly where my stuff is. Thus, home.

Home.

Slept one night in ‘my room’. My room as in I picked the paint color, sleep there when I’m in town and where my stuff is.

Woke up in the middle of the big squishy bed with my one eared dog (His other ear is in the dresser; it’s been there and on the to do list at least 20 years. I’m fairly confident, it won’t get done.) and my Amy doll. Strawberry Shortcake looking on.

Something comforting in that. Going home. Waking up to the sounds of people in the kitchen, smell of coffee and bacon.

The house was full of people and energy. Very loud, so much laughing. Because, even when we’re sad, when we’re together, we’re laughing. And loud. It’s kind of our thing.

But, in true youngest kid style, the second night I spent on the couch. The house was at max capacity. Been awhile since I’ve slept on the couch in the TV room. Tucked in with a quilt and a pillow, just like it was when I was seven.

Because, even at nearly 40, when you’re the youngest, and home, it doesn’t matter.

You’re seven.

Marathon!

Holy shit! I did it.

So fresh - at the start!

That's pretty much all I can think right now.

That and, control freaks probably shouldn't run marathons... or at least, control freaks like me...

I had been thinking of running one, I've written about it before. It's part of a long list of things to do the year I turn 40. I sort of buckled to peer pressure though and signed up for one earlier than I originally planned. Originally planned June, after I actually turned 40. Ended up doing one in April, more than a month before I turn 40. No matter. I signed up, paid my money and set up a training plan. A very long and somewhat tortuous training plan. Which I didn't follow exactly. Some days, no matter what, you just don't feel like following the plan. Even a control freak like me will shirk the plan on occasion. Then feel guilty. And maybe a little dirty.

Finally, like all things, it actually came to the day. As I considered it a bucket list item, a one and done, I wasn't very nervous. I just had to not die. Literally.

And, it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Mostly because I really had no expectation. The first 13 miles were a breeze. Yes, I said that. But then, oh but then, my left knee lost its mind and stopped bending. STOPPED BENDING. Because it's an asshole. I staggered along... an old woman on a bike asked me if I was okay. When a 70+ year old woman on a bike is concerned about your condition you know things are bad... or at least possibly bad.

I had to keep going though. I had trained for six months. There was no way I was leaving that course unless it was on a stretcher. In an ambulance. Worst case, hearse.

The poor husband was trying so hard at the check ins to be helpful - offering snacks and protein and energy things. But, honestly, I was so not in the mood. I was in the mood to stab someone. For sure. In that mood. Stabby. STABBY.

Around mile 16 that knee finally loosened up and and started behaving. I had a solid five or six miles after that.

Eventually it lost it's mind again and pulled my right foot into the insanity. I very slowly made my way to mile 26. The last .2 were brutal. Even with my friends cheering me on, I barely finished. But, I did.

More time than I wanted. But, it's a one and done thing. So who cares?

Right?

Oh, but the and then...

After I was showered and fed and napped.

I'm doing it again. But, better. Because now I have a baseline. I have what all control freaks need.

Metrics.

Done. With medal.

Paco's Whispers

It’s pretty well known that I love dogs. I must, or I wouldn’t have four. Which was a happy accident. Not intentional. And, sometimes overwhelming. But they’re ours now.

New puppy.

Last Memorial Day weekend I brought home a border collie puppy. Shelby. A new running partner. The old retriever just couldn’t keep up and I was missing my super smart, departed border collie, Paco. Also known as the World’s Greatest Dog.

There was something about this little puppy - how she jumped off the deck and ran right for me, a stranger, that reminded me of meeting him in the driveway of the farm where he came from.

She’s got an exaggerated head tilt, she does random things like drop her food from the bowl to the floor and then eat it, walks past a bowl full of water and checks to see if the lid to the toilet is open instead. Puts her paws up on the water dispenser on the fridge if the bowl is empty and the lid is down. Rolls in clover and freshly cut grass, inhaling like it’s the best experience of her life. All similar things to his behavior. It’s felt for some time that he’s around, whispering in her ear.

Running with her is fun but also challenging as just like him, she has to be the leader. Slightly in front. No matter how fast the pace. He loved to go on a run or a bike ride. He was also a thief. Of a cat burglar caliber. Jog by some kids playing, not notice anything in particular but a few minutes later realize he’s got a ball in his mouth - brazenly stolen in broad daylight.

The weather here has made a turn. We’ve gone from record rain to sunny and mid-seventies. Called for a nice evening run outside. A five miler. Just the right distance for both of us to finish before dinner.

At mile three I realized. She’d stolen a ball from a kid somewhere on the route. On the fifth year anniversary of Paco’s death.

He was there. Whispering in her ear.

Smart dogs go formal.

Crazy 8!

The Divine Miss M,

You're about to turn eight years old. Eight. I don't remember much about eight. Second grade. Mrs. Feeney. She taught me how to tell time. And, that sums up what I remember about being eight.

It's not a milestone, it's not exciting. It's just a solid even number.

I was so excited to meet you eight years ago. You have exceeded my expectations in every way. Other than your straight hair and brown eyes... Because, seriously, how did that happen? I'm sure you can tell me all about genomes and genetic makeup but I don't really have the time tonight.

I love your perspective on life. How you have everything figured out at the ripe old age of eight. How you literally don't care what anyone thinks. I hope you keep that forever. Because, I can tell you that it's a challenge - even at my age to keep that perspective.

Your vocabulary is astounding. To use words like: allegedly, obviously, ridiculous - all in the proper way is pretty impressive. Except when you're using them against me. I don't care for that so much.

I admire your quest for learning. You mentioned in passing that you are reading the encyclopedias - well, why not? I guess? Who doesn't? And, they came with the house so... read away. Have fun. Nerd.

You're an old soul, Madison. You've taught me so much. You're my favorite almost eight year old. You surprise me everyday - with your knowledge, your kindness, your spirituality and your love.

I'm so thankful that you chose me to be your mother. I'm not sure I'm worthy, but you saw something there that was at least interesting! Or a project. Either way, I'm glad to know you.

I would love to freeze time and spend more time with you as a silly little girl but I know that isn't very realistic. Instead, I'm going to focus on enjoying every minute of your growth.

I love you, Madi Big.

Love,

Mom

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.