The most wonderful time of the year...

It's on. The countdown. To back to school.

I love summer. 

For the weather. 

What I strongly dislike is the lack of daily schedules. Bedtime routine is shot. Morning routine is shot. Dinner is late. Oh, there's fun. There's soccer in the yard. There are barbecues. There are parties. There's shenanigans. All of which contribute to no schedule.

Stupid unscheduled fun.

Even though it's busier, the school year is easier. Schedules. Homework. Bedtime. Wake up time. Breakfast time. The day divided by units. My favorite thing.

And so it is with glee that we wind down the month and get school supplies and school clothes and school shoes. We pack backpacks and book bags. Everything is organized and hung on a hook. It's a beautiful thing.

But, lets talk school supplies for a second, shall we. I revolted a little last year and didn't buy every single God damn thing on the list. Because, well, it's stupid. It wasn't enough to write about, just enough to complain about. Until this year.

Because this year...

For the 7th grader. He's to have 12 mechanical pencils with lead refills. AND three pencil sharpeners. What in the hell might he be sharpening? Because last I checked, the mechanical pencil negated the sharpener... Sharpening the colored pencils? Doubtful. The colored pencils go to school in August and return home in June in the same condition. They appear to hardly get used. Even if the sharpeners are for the colored pencils - are THREE required?

TANGENT: Now that I read that, does 'colored pencils' sound sort of racist?

Then the 3rd grader. Well, she needs 4 dozen pencils. Sharpened. I'm certain that I, in my lifetime, haven't used 48 pencils. How much writin' is she doing? Or going to do? In third grade? Are they raising money for schools by having third graders scribe books in the basement or something?

Back in my day...

Well, from what I remember, my mom bitched about the list back in my day too. 

Jaywalking. Or failing to follow pedestrian signage...

I've been a little lax in writing lately. Not for any reason really. Just busy. And, well, nothing super story worthy has happened lately. Until Independence Day.

Let's have a little review of recent history...

I ran a marathon in April. It kind of beat me up. I followed up with a half marathon in early May. And, frankly, following that, I was kind of burnt out on running. Needed a break. Started feeling like running the end of May, pounded out a few miles. Felt pretty good. Then got rear-ended. Threw my back out. Doctor says no running. Then some running. Light miles. No more than two. Every other day.

On July 1st I was cleared to run. Encouraged to take it easy. Timing was good because I was feeling ready to run again. Really run. It's a mental game now. My body can do it. But, sometimes my brain is lazy. I have a half marathon scheduled for the end of September. Training plan in the app, training day 1 is set for July 4. Independence Day.

There's something special about the first training day. The first green light on the training plan. It's hopeful. It's the beginning of a long goal.

It also makes the dog incredibly happy.

Happy Dog.

And so, on a holiday, the 4th of July, I was up early. As was the dog. First run is only three miles. Decided on an out and back - that's the easiest. App set for three miles. Dog on the leash. Let's do this.

I was feeling good. So good. Shelby Dog was settled in. Pace is really good. For a first run in a while. Almost home. Pushing the pace. .4 miles to go. Headed down Cedar St. Nearing the stop lights. Glanced up at the light. Turned yellow as I stepped off the curb. In the cross walk. I'm not going to stop with this pace. At 7:30 on a holiday. With NO cars around. Because, it's 7:30 in the morning on a holiday.

I'm through the intersection and about 30 feet down the street when I hear the siren. I turn my head and see the officer. He looks pissed as he's waving me back.

Seriously?

Now, in hindsight, this is where I blew it. I felt my eyes roll. The kind of eye roll that involves the whole face. The kind of eye roll that is visible even in sunglasses. And then, well, I probably made it worse when I very dramatically paused my running app before walking toward him.

I'm not going to screw up my pace, for God's sake.

He asked me why I ran through the light. I answered, 'the light was yellow when I stepped off the curb.'

This was apparently the wrong answer. Because he lost his shit. Lost. His. Shit.

"You don't watch that light. YOU WATCH THAT LIGHT." He pointed to the pedestrian sign.

Umm, what? I spend a lot of time in Portland. Where thousands of pedestrians walk wherever the hell they want to. Every minute, of every day.

He asked for my ID.

Umm, yeah, I don't have any on me.

Cue lecture on what would happen if I got hit by a car.

Well, all my contact information and 'ICE' is in my phone. Which paramedics and hospital personnel know how to access. But, I'm not going to give a technology lecture back, as he's obviously not in the mood.

Plus, I'm kind of a big deal around here. People know who I am.

He's clearly frustrated with me.

"You probably don't know your license number do you?"

Of course I do. 

I rattle it off. Complete with expiration date.

Then he asks me stats. It should be noted that he is a tiny human. Tiny. A tiny angry human.

Height?

5' 10".

I'm not. 

I felt myself lean into my toes to add a little.

It was all I could do to not say, what's yours? 5' 2"?

I stand there waiting while he calls me in. Having a really hard time holding in a giggle. Expecting at any moment a friend or two will drive by and honk and wave. At me. Pulled over. For running.

But, then I remember, it's a holiday. And, it's 7:30 in the morning. On a holiday. There are no people. Because, it's a holiday.

The dog and I make eye contact. I swear she rolled her eyes.

I'm expecting a warning. An additional lecture. Because, I didn't run a light. It was yellow. Plus, I'm a ped. I always have the right of way.

Right?

I watch him get out his code book.

Wait. What? Really? So obscure that you don't even know what it is?

Oh well, I'll get a little fine. What's jay walking? 20 bucks? It'll be a funny story.

It's not 20 bucks. 

It's 110. Dollars. American.

Father's Day

Father's Day is here.

I'm not a fan.

Which sort of sucks for the husband - I participate, of course. I make the favorite breakfast, I take the kids out to find gifts, I follow that up with steaks for dinner. I produce a solid day. Even if I don't like it. Because, it's not about me. It's about the father of my children. And so I fake it.

I don't have a father. I mean, I did. Obviously. Half my DNA comes from somewhere. Contrary to popular belief, I wasn't hatched. Or anything. My start was typical.

DNA.

I was two when my parents divorced. I have no memory of them being married to each other. I've got six photos of me with my dad. All before the age of two. Plus a couple group photos at later graduations and weddings. That's it. Not a real strong relationship there. Saw him a handful of times and spoke to him on the phone twice as an adult. He died when I was 31.

When my brother called to tell me he died, he said, "Dad passed away today. We've got closure. Not the kind we wanted but we don't have to wonder any more."

And he was right. No more in the back of my mind wondering if he'd maybe call on Christmas. Or be in the area for some reason and want to meet for lunch. He was only three hours away, but that might as well have been another planet.

I was fortunate though. I had a step-dad. A good one. One who took me to the dentist and stood in the rain at track meets and soccer games. And even though he knew nothing of either of those sports, he cheered. He was invested. I needed him.

Doing Dad Stuff.

He died a little over five years ago. I've hated Father's Day ever since. I'm too old to really need a dad. But, damn, sometimes they come in handy. Even if it's just for silliness. Sometimes, you need a dad. Dad's know stuff. Like fertilizer and lawn watering schedules. When to change the oil in the car. All stuff I'm capable of but don't want to do.

Dad's teach your kids things that get you phone calls from school... Because they want to be awesome grandpas. I used to get those calls. The boy would do something, I'd get the call. I'd call my parents, because that's what you do... and the dad guy would be awkwardly silent after I described the incident...

There used to be a race. Who would call first on Father's Day. I would call early, like seven, to try to win. I would send a funny card. Sometimes. I wasn't a very good card sender. Probably could have done better there.

I could have been better in so many ways.

I could have done more than call.

I could have forgiven. I could have made that call. I didn't.

Now, that lesson seems to be an important one to learn. And, one I will be working on.

Forty

Well, this is it.

I guess.

I'm forty. 40.

Barbie Mom.

Turns out, not a big deal. Just a number. I am not, in fact, over any hill.

I'm a bicentennial baby. Born in Spokane. Not a big illustrious start.

I imagine that my birth was a bit of a shit show... Starting with just the car ride. Two hours from our house to the hospital. Our house on the Snake River, in the middle of an alfalfa farm. JPC Farms. The trip on gravel roads to the highway. My dad rushing; I'd like to hope.

My mom wasn't actually in labor that day. But, it was so far back home, they induced her. And, out I came. A big ol' Taurus of a baby. A girl. The third. Boy, girl, girl.

Third kids are different. Especially when born after all the characters are collected. My parents weren't trying to have a boy or a girl. Not trying "one more time" for a particular sex. They already had them. Blonde, blue eyed ones.

Why add to the collection?

Well, I'm not sure. But, at the same time I'm thankful that they did.

Ken Doll Dad.

Or else, I'd be someone else. And, not nearly as adorable. My parents literally looked like Barbie and Ken. I'm adorable but yet somehow the least attractive. That's how attractive my family is. I'm the ugly one.

Over the years, I've done some living. Honestly, probably saw more by age twelve than most people see their whole lives. Barbie Mom and Ken Doll Dad divorced, the moves, the crazy, the lessons learned. The never agains.

Barbie + Ken > Skipper

But, here I am. On the other side of all of that. With a family of my own. I'm married with children. I'm not in jail. I haven't even been arrested. Which, is shocking to a lot of people.

Some of it, in addition to my family, is due to my friends. My pals. My people. My appreciation grows as I try to hurdle through the challenges of being a grown up. Especially in years like this when there is much joy mixed with much sadness.

Friends who have been there to mend the heart that was broken, encourage me to take on something new, like tap dancing on Friday nights or sweet potatoes. Friends to cheer me on, sit with me for inking, make me laugh until I cry, finish my sentences - and make those sentences funnier - teach me how to install a car seat. And, most importantly, make sure I wake up in the right place.

I'm so fortunate. So lucky. So everything.

In good news, I plan on living another 100 years. So, plan on attending more parties. Because, we're friends. We're pals.

We're in this show together until the end.

And, so, here's my birthday candle wish. I'm going to tell - I don't think that will affect the outcome - I wish for you to all have what I have. Laughing, silliness, friends and love. Because, I have a feeling that this next 100 years is going to go by really, really fast.

Frank!

I bought Frank for 1.97 at the Walmart in Moscow, ID in 1994.

I wouldn't say the years have been kind. When my mom is in town, she trims him and tries to make him look a little better. Better is relative. 

Frank has grown substantially in 20 years from the little sprig he started. I think I've gotten my two bucks worth.

When our first house was for sale, Frank had to go into 'foster care' and live with friends as he could have been a distraction to buyers.

Seriously.

The amazing house could have been brought down from the ugly Walmart plant from 1994.

Now, house sold, Frank lives happily on a table in the master bed room. He likes the windows. He's gotten bigger and somehow less attractive. If that is possible.

When I painted the table he sits on, the husband said, "You know, the table is a little too nice now for Frank. I think you should move him."

"Um, I've had Frank longer than I've had you. Why should Frank leave?"

He gave me a look. But, honestly I get it so often I don't even really notice anymore.

But, he does sort of have a point. Frank has seen better days and maybe the master bed room isn't the place for him now. But, it's Frank. I'm sort of attached.

I've been working on the third floor of the house, mostly guest space. Here's the thing, there is a perfect place for Frank. On the third floor. In the perfect light. Displayed 'just so'.

But, in true 'me' style, I don't want the husband thinking this is because of him. I am moving Frank upstairs. Me. Because that place is perfect for him. NOT because HE wanted Frank out of the bedroom. Just because I wanted a perfectly styled third floor landing.

So, I moved Frank. I am now sleeping without Frank. For the first time in years.

We've come a long way, Frank and I.

From that crappy dorm room in The Tower to our own grown up mortgage.

I can't wait to see where we go next.

Frank. On display.

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.