Item #177 on my list of Things That Make My Heart Leap Into My Throat:

That would be the 24th mile marker of the Rochester Marathon that is now three weeks away.  THREE! WEEKS! Seeing that freshly spray painted “24″ on the marathon course during a bike ride today made me gasp and cover my mouth with my hand whilst laying my other arm across my forehead before pretending to faint.

Holy.  Crap.  They have marked the miles for the race.  We are that close.

Yes, that bright orange, yet-to-be-faded by the weather or bipeds or Godzillas was my cold, harsh reminder of just how close the marathon is now.  I’ll probably be doing the exact same thing with my mouth, hand and arm in three weeks too.  Except maybe the fainting thing will be real then.

Be scared.

Yup!  No problem!  I am scared.  I admit it.  And I feel as though I shouldn’t be!  I’ve run a marathon before after all.  I’ve trained the same way this time.  I did it once, I can do it again, right?  But what if I can’t? I know all too well how freaking sucky it gets at the end. I remember how much my legs hurt.  I’ll never forget wondering how on earth I was managing to move forward despite a pair of legs that felt like over cooked summer squash. I know I promised myself right around that very same mile marker two years ago that I was never, ever going to do this again.

This is when I think about the fact that marathon running is a lot like child birth. It feels really long. It is not easy. There’s a lot of build up and preparation. A lot of swearing and sweating and grunting and crying. A lot of saying that you are never, ever going to do this again. But then before you know it, it’s a couple of years later and you’re holding another positive home pregnancy test in your hand or you’re mailing in the registration form with your check, and in both instances thinking “what the hell did I just do?”

But do it anyway.

So it’s ok be scared, but you still have to do those things that scare you. That’s how change happens. When you do the things that scare you, you give yourself the opportunity to succeed. Sure, you give yourself the opportunity to fail too, but how awesome is that?  Failure is good.  Failure is how you figure it out.  And even when you fail, chances are you’ll have at least a few small successes along the way too.  And it’s those small successes along with some big ones that eventually begin to add up.  Before you know it, you’ve got something much bigger and something very real in front of you; a change in the way you perceive who you are and what you are capable of.

You don’t change your self image in one moment of feeling good about yourself. It’s a compilation of all your successes, both big and small, that start to make a difference in the way you see yourself and allow you to move toward becoming that person that you want to be.  Nothing builds success like success.  Succeed at one thing, and suddenly you’ve got the courage to try something else, something that at one time probably seemed impossibly scary.  But that’s when you run your fingers through the hair of Fear and grab a hold of those nappy roots to look Fear straight in the face.  That’s when you really begin.

So begin already, would ya?

Start small.  Go for a walk and run just a little.  Do one push up.  Or ten.  Run a 5K.  Run another marathon.  Write a post like this for crying out loud!  Do I even know what the hell I’m talking about here?  Do I sound like an idiot?  Maybe.  Probably!  But how else am I going to figure out what works and what doesn’t in this tiny plot of cyber real estate of mine?  How else am I going to figure out what I enjoy writing about and what I don’t?  All I can do is be honest and be myself and share what works for me and hope it might work for you too.  So that’s what I do – scary or not.  Put it out there, risk failure, adjust course as needed and then keep going with some new knowledge to come along with me for the ride.

Nike was right.

So just do it.  Do something.  Do anything!  And it’s ok to be afraid.  Spray painted numbers are pretty scary after all, as are positive home pregnancy tests.  One of those I plan to plow right over in three weeks, the other would surely make me faint.  That would be #154 on my list of things that make my heart leap into my throat.  In fact, let’s not even go there.  Too scary.

• Lost Something? I’ll Find It.
• Home Field Advantage
• Everywhere You Look

I looked at the calendar just now and realized that four years ago today, I quit my day job.

With one month to go until the impending arrival of Thing 2,

I swapped out dress slacks and make up and opted for dress up and make believe.

This is the longest job I’ve ever held.

It’s been the most challenging.

But it’s also been the most rewarding.

Some days start out easy.

Some days start out rough.

Some days get harder later on.

It’s not always pretty.

And it’s not always easy.

Every day is not a picnic.

But we’ve definitely had some fun!

And found ways to keep busy.

And haven’t forgotten to have a sense of humor.

Or how to have a good time.

I need to say thank you to my husband, who eagerly handed over the role as stay at home parent and slogs off to work every day to support us.

I need to say thank you to all my fellow stay at home friends (and their children!) who have helped keep me sane these last four years.

I need to say thank you to the countless family members who stopped by to visit just to say hi, to give me a break or to help keep us from going stir crazy.

And most of all, I need to say thank you to these girls of mine.

For teaching me so much about myself.

About life.

And about love.

About keeping the paint up high.

And keeping our standards low.

And most of all, to just go with the flow.

Holy crap. We made it through another day together. Hallelujah.

• Scary, Scary, Quite Contrary
• Everywhere You Look
• Can't You Read the Signs?

A month or so ago I stumbled upon a blog post about kids learning to ride a bike without pedals or training wheels. The basic idea is that without having to worry about pedaling, they can focus first on getting the hang of balancing on two wheels. They can just sit on the seat with their feet on the ground, move their feet and walk. They’ll eventually start coasting along, balancing with the security and knowledge that they can easily catch themselves if they start to tip. Once they have the balance thing down, it’s much easier to then get the hanging pedaling – instead of doing it the other way around like you do with training wheels.

Observe.

Ava’s been riding a training wheeled bike since she was 4 or so. Now at the ripe old age of 6 she’s expressed an interest in taking her training wheels off – especially watching so many of her peers riding without them.

So if you rewind the tape of our life here to a few weeks ago, you’d see an attempt at Ava learning to ride her bike sans training wheels – at her request, mind you. Watch in slow motion as the realization spreads across her face that this is not going to be quite as easy as her fellow 5 and 6 year olds were making it look. Fast forward through the small melt down that then ensued. Press play as you watch Zak put the training wheels put back on. Roll credits. The end.

But then I saw that blog post. And then training wheels in my head started turning. She needs a small bike where she can easily reach the ground to get the hang of balancing, and then she can worry about pedaling once she’s got the balancing part down pat.

Here’s a video from Strider Sports that explains it all nicely. No, I am not selling these bikes. No, I don’t make any money if you buy one. I sure as hell didn’t buy one. This video just saves me from having to type it all out. Wait, I think I already did type it all out.

So… a small bike, a small bike… what we need is a small (free) bike! Well ask and you shall receive! Last week at a girlfriend’s house I spotted a small two wheeled bike in their shed. Turns out they weren’t currently using it for their young daughters so I snagged it to give this small bike idea a whirl. Ava, who is not in the least bit afraid to be disagreeable, was willing to give this idea a whirl too.

Here she is on Sunday.

And within about a half an hour or so she was off and riding! I didn’t have to run behind her holding the seat. I didn’t have to let go and yell “yeah, I’m still holding the seat!” only to have her look over her shoulder and see that wasn’t in fact holding the seat. She didn’t have realize she was doing it by herself, promptly lose her balance and come crashing to the ground.  She didn’t refuse to ever try again and then give me the cold shoulder for the rest of the night like you might see in some smarmy TV show from the 90′s starring Dave Coulier and the Olsen twins.

Nope. None of that. Instead I sat on my ass on the porch steps with my camera and watched as she figured it out on her own.

And now she’s an old pro!

We haven’t taken the training wheels off her big bike yet as the meltdown alarms for the nuclear kid reactors start to sound at the mere suggestion of it. Soon enough, I’m sure.

The moral of today’s story is: got small kids?  Buy a balance bike. Or don’t. Better yet, save some money and find a small bike on the side of the road or in your friends shed. Maybe take the pedals off if you’re mechanically inclined. Either way, I highly recommend doing what it takes so you don’t have to live out a scene from Full House.

• Weekend Randomness
• Scary, Scary, Quite Contrary
• Can't You Read the Signs?

The time period of our lives before now will be referred to as “Before the Haircut”. The time period from this point forward will be referred to as “After the Haircut”. BtH and AtH, if you will. And although this isn’t the first time I’ve blogged about a hair incident, I do hope it might be the last.

A couple of weeks ago Maxine decided to cut her own hair.

Notice the missing bangs and partial mullet on the left side of her head?

When I asked her Why On Earth Would You Do Such a Thing? she responded that she wanted her hair to look like Ava’s American Girl doll “Elizabet”.

(That’s right, ElizaBET, as in no “h” – AKA “Kit Kittredge” to the rest of the American Girl Doll loving world.)

Umm, not exactly kid, but I think you’ve got potential.

My mom asked me if I was going to take her to the hairdresser to get her fixed up. At first I thought, “Yes, definitely.” But then enough people said to just let it grow out, you could hardly notice it, it sort of looked as though she had her hair tucked behind her ear, maybe she’ll start a rockin’ new half mullet hair style trend.

So I decided to leave it.

Apparently though, Ava had her own opinion on this issue and quite literally decided to take matters into her own hands. Yesterday while I was taking a shower (YES I REALLY WAS TAKING A SHOWER ZAK) Ava decided to play Barbie Hairstyler Magic with Maxine.

Except Maxine’s hair doesn’t grow back with the click of a mouse button like Barbie’s does, does it? click click click CLICKCLICKCLICK

Nope, it doesn’t.

When Maxine walked into the room before I knew she’d been to Ava’s Magic Hair Emporium, she was sort of lurking in the shadows. I could tell something was “different”.

From the angle I was at it in my dimly lit bedroom, it looked as though her hair was very neatly slicked back. Cocking my head slowly to the right and then slowly to the left, rubbing my eyes and then squinting them, straining my neck forward like a mother snapping turtle ready to bite the head off of her offspring, I asked her to come a little closer.

Ohnoyoudidnt.

My mouth dropped open and I said nothing. She immediately said “Ava did it!”

And I still said nothing. And my mouth still hung open. I raised my hand to cover the gaping hole in my head as to not catch any flies.

It was at this point that I requested Ava’s presence upstairs.

When I asked Ava Why On Earth Would You Do Such a Thing, she replied that she wanted to “even out” Maxine’s American Girl Doll styling attempts. When I said again Why On Earth Would You Do Such a Thing and the followed it with a What Did You Think I Would Say If You’d Asked Me First, I sent them both into their rooms to get their piggy banks before she could reply.

Girls, I think an impromptu trip to the hairdresser has just been added to today’s agenda.

Ava, being 6 years old and knowing better, was fined $6 to help pay for Maxine’s repair hair cut.

Maxine, being 3 years old and with the vocabulary of an adolescent, surely could have said “No Ava, please don’t cut my hair.” was fined $3 to also help pay for her repair hair cut.

Me, being 31 years old and foolishly thinking I could run off and leave my children unattended while I saw to my own personal hygiene like I have countless times BtH, was willing to pay up to $31 to pay for Maxine’s repair hair cut.

You know, for $40 I could have just bought them Barbie Magic and saved us all a lot of heartache.

The hairdresser said “This has been my challenge of the day!”

Ya don’t say? You know, I could almost say that exact same thing myself.

He also commented on the “very strong lines” of Ava’s attempts to fix Maxine’s ‘do as he did his best to blend those “strong lines” in.

We returned from the hairdresser mostly unscathed,

but still feeling pretty defeated.

Oh well, onward an upward.

Life goes on, AtH.

• Everywhere You Look
• Can't You Read the Signs?
• A Fish Tale

Once upon a time in 2004, a small creature was cut out of my uterus.  Said creature then proceeded to wreak havoc on our lives in a variety of ways.  Exactly two years, six months and one week later another creature was sliced and diced out of me, eagerly adding to the chaos that we now call life.

It just so happens though that these small havoc wreaking creatures were the spring board to the life I now strive to live; that is – doing the exact opposite of what mainstream society might do.   Whenever I start to find myself on the side of the majority, I get to thinking it’s probably time to reconsider.  The world is consuming processed foods at an alarming rate?  Well then I’ll just stop cooking.  Everyone else returns their library books on time? Mine are always going to be late from now on.  Most people shower once a day?  Every other day if you’re lucky.

Hi, my name is Alison and Hyperbole is my middle name.  But you catch my drift.  If it’s what everyone else is doing, suddenly I start to wonder what’s wrong with it.

It all started with breastfeeding. Well, during pregnancy to be more precise.  A pregnant and eager first time mom planning to nurse for a year maybe, I started reading and reading and reading some more.  Thus began my journey to self-actualization and this crazy notion that you don’t always have to do things the same way everyone else does or even says you’re supposed to.  Of course there is a time and place to learn from the trials and errors and successes of other – but don’t be afraid to make some of your own mistakes too.  If you aren’t failing, then you aren’t trying.  And if you aren’t trying, what’s the point?

But back to breastfeeding neurosis for a second here – fast forward 9 months + 3 breastfeeding books + a couple of La Leche League meetings later and rather than having weaned at 6 weeks, 6 months or even a year, I found myself nursing a two and a half year old on an airplane, smirking as I flip through the aircraft safety card with a pair toddler legs dangling into the aisle, fully prepared to shoot squinty eyed glares at strangers or flight attendants that might raise an eyebrow.

Misadventures in human lactation aside, I really am getting somewhere with all this; and that would be my encouragement to both you and me to try crazy things and not fear being a little different.  I’m not suggesting being different simply for the sake of being different, but instead being different when some free thinking, knowledge, understanding and common sense dictate a move away from cultural norms and mainstream thinking.

This brings me to my latest experiment, and that would be running without any shoes on.

That’s right, barefoot running.  This concept first appeared on my horizon when I read a post by Matt of No Meat Athlete fame some time last year.  Since then, I’ve taken special note of barefoot runners.  I’ve found myself reading articles and blog posts on barefoot running and have even spent some time doubting the validity of everything I’ve read on the subject.  More recently though, I’ve been wondering what exactly it might entail to transition into something so seemingly radical and how long it might take to acclimate to this far from mainstream idea.

To be brief, the main idea here is that when you run with shoes on, you muck up your form.  Heavily cushioned sneakers keep you from feeling pain or discomfort you would otherwise feel if you didn’t have shoes on when you run all weird-like.  Sneakers keep us from finding the proper running form our bodies are designed to run in.  With sneakers on, you might land on your heel, which generates a sudden impact to your bones, muscles and joints.  It’s like hitting the brakes with every step.  We’re not supposed to run this way, and if you didn’t have sneakers on, you’d figure that out pretty quickly.

With shoes on though, you don’t necessarily feel the pain caused by your improper form immediately.  Instead, that pain rears its fugly head over the course of a few weeks or months and presents as shin splints, ITBS, knee or hip pain and you can’t figure out why it hurts.  You might go on to blame running itself, probably using everyone’s favorite “running is bad for your knees!” line or “I’m just not meant to be a runner…”   Both excuses that I used myself in my journey to actually enjoying running.

Alternatively though, if you run without shoes on, you automatically start running in a way that our bodies are best suited to run – that is, by landing on the ball of your foot and/or mid-foot.

I could go on for paragraphs (too late) with all that I’ve learned, but instead I’ll say that if you’re curious to know more, Google is your friend.  And rest assured that I’ll probably write more about it as my experience with it evolves anyway.

Now don’t get me wrong:  I still enjoy running in my sneakers and full well plan to run like the rest of the normal running world 90% of the time for now.  Fortunately in my case, as my mother, girlfriends, husband and large calf muscles can attest to – I walk on my toes when I’m barefoot.  I have no idea why – maybe I was a ballerina in a former life.  Whatever the case, I apparently run this way too, even with sneakers on.  I remember being fitted for shoes at a local running shoe store, where they video tape your feet from behind as you run on a treadmill.  They then play back the recording in slow motion to see what exactly it is you do with those feet of yours when you run.  When they played my blockbuster of foot movie back, the dude said “Your heels don’t even touch the ground!”  Oops.  Is that a bad thing?  Ummm, no, as I’ve come to find out, it’s not.

Still, I bet there’s room for improvement with my form.  I do notice that my knees start to hurt when my shoes are getting old.  This is why I’ve decided to eschew a summer of long runs and instead focus on increasing my barefoot mileage.  I plan to start by supplementing 10% of my weekly mileage with a couple of barefoot miles through grassy areas with a sprinkling of paved paths that are a part of my usual running routes.  I want to slowly get the skin on the bottoms of my feet accustomed to this off the wall idea while at the same time slowly strengthening the small stabilizing muscles in my feet that have atrophied thanks to their disuse from being swaddled in leather and shoe laces and served up on a foam cushioning platter for the past three decades.

In summary, breastfeeding leads to barefoot running. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.  And when I slice my foot open on a piece of broken glass or contract HIV from jamming my big toe into a hypodermic needle, I won’t say you didn’t warn me.

• So Happy Together
• Scary, Scary, Quite Contrary
• Pushing Up Pansies

So admittedly, I’ve been doing very little cooking in recent weeks, this last week in particular. I feel like I’m just now getting my bearings in this new kitchen. I’ve been busy finding a place for everything, trying to figure out what’s going to work, what’s not, what I need and what I don’t, what can be donated, thrown away or put into storage to be dug out as needed all while wondering where the hell all this crap came from in the first place.

This would be why I haven’t been writing much about new recipes or foods I’m trying lately – there are no new recipes or foods to speak of. I beg for forgiveness as I veer wildly off course for a short while here.

Ready to veer?

While packing and unpacking, Zak uncovered the fish bowl – the same fish bowl we used to house our monarch caterpillar this summer actually. Thinking back on how that ended and the fate of our poor little caterpillar, we probably should have seen this coming.

Take note, this is a bit of very obvious foreshadowing.

At one point after Christmas, a conversation went down between Zak and the girls that ended with the promise of some fish to fill the aforementioned fish bowl. I absolutely would have vetoed this decision had I been there to cast my vote. In my mind fish = a dirty fish bowl = one more thing I have to clean. The only way he got me to agree to fish before they walked out the door to the pet store was by signing an affidavit stating that I would never have to clean a fish bowl and that he and the girls would take care of everything.

Fine. Sign here and then you can go get your fish.

Did you know that at Petco fish come with a 15 day warranty? True story. Just bring back your dead fish and a sample of the water and they’ll scoop another one out of the tank for you, no questions asked.

(More foreshadowing.)

So on Sunday they got fish. Two fish to be exact, one for each of them. And then on Monday morning when I was on the phone with the phone company trying to figure out why our internet is still not working (this post would be brought to you by some neighbor we’ve yet to meet named “Ruth” who very fortunately has her wireless network wide open. Thank you Ruth for unknowingly keeping me sane until the phone company gets their act in gear) and at that exact same time as luck with have it (or unlucky, if you are a fish) Zak was on a work call – therefore leaving the girls relatively unattended with new fish and a brand new container of fish food.

Do you see where this is going? Let’s just say that on Tuesday, Goldie wasn’t looking too hot. She was spending an awful lot of time at the top of the fish bowl last night. I think we better just jump right to the punch here and reveal what we woke up to first thing this morning, shall we?

As Maxine pointed out in the video, we don’t have nets. So I went down to the kitchen to scrounge around and came back upstairs with the best thing I could to find to scoop out our poor little fish.

A 1/3 c measure.

Ava showed Maxine and suddenly it started to sink in.

Uh oh.

Oh no.

Oh no oh no oh no no no no no put the camera down you stupid woman and comfort your child!

What to do? What to do?? Wait! I know!

Who wants left over chocolate cheese cake for breakfast?!

OK – let’s not go there. Cheesecake for comfort! Are you sad? Here! Feel better! Eat something sweet!

Why is that the first thing that comes to mind? Although come to think of it, how many times did I whip out my boob to nurse this child when she was sad or hurt or frustrated or bored? Is it any wonder we use food to make ourselves feel better? It’s practically built in and ingrained into us from Day 1!

Comfort food musings aside, after putting the camera down and saying good bye, we skipped the visit to the fridge and headed for the couch instead to spend 20 minutes crying about fish and talking about what we believe happens after someone dies. These things happen. It’s OK to be sad and mourn the loss of our little friend. He was a good fish and he was probably sick before he even came home to us (back peddle! back peddle! I didn’t expect her to be so sad! Quick QUICK turn this ship around QUICK!) and he’s not sick or suffering anymore.

Why don’t these kids come with a manual? Did yours come with a manual? Check the index for me, is there a section on Dead Fish?

A few more tears and lots of hugs instead of rich desserts, I think we’ve all recovered from our fishy incident that greeted us with the rising sun this morning.

And no, we are not going to take Petco up on their offer for a replacement fish. Obviously. Goldie is in a better place now and therefore long gone. Instead we’ll allow what’s left of the fish food to last 50% longer than it would have otherwise.

Now… who wants cheesecake for dinner?

• One Armed Carrot Jokes
• Everywhere You Look
• Can't You Read the Signs?

It’s been one of those days.

What exactly does that sign mean you ask? No yelling.

Now don’t get me wrong, I try not to yell. But you might say that I’ve been known to raise my voice. Sometimes I yell more than or louder than I’d like to admit. But I promise that I DO TRY not to yell. Some days I’m more successful than others.

Today when I scolded Ava because she purposefully hit Maxine in the head with a hair brush, she ran off upstairs in tears and got to work on some signs while I got to work on lunch. She came back down a short while later and we both apologized for our less than stellar behavior. Then she got to work merrily hanging up her signs up all over the house. The living room, the kitchen, the dining room. I see a couple upstairs now too.

I enjoyed signs while I ate my homemade garlic hummus smeared on toasted sesame Ezekiel bread topped with salsa.

And another with my spinach banana smoothie.

I asked her, “What does ‘Dai Oim’ mean? Does that mean ‘DIE MOM’?!”

Fortunately, no, that’s not what it means. It just says “Please don’t yell at me.”

I also asked if she made any signs for herself, because she yells too. (Funny how they not only pick up on your good habits, but they pick up on ALL your habits.) She replied that no, it was my job to make those signs for her.

Alrighty then.

Kidding. Kidding! I said I was kidding!

This is either going to save us both years of therapy or we’ll be declaring bankruptcy due to outrageous mental hospital bills.

But onto the splash park!

Want to play Where’s Waldo Ava? (Her suit is blue and green!)

Apparently everybody and their mother had the same idea we did today. We didn’t stay long.

Afternoon snack unintentionally turned into an early dinner.

Fruit.

Fruit.

And oh yeah, more fruit.

I think “Turkish Apricots” is latin for “These are kind of brown but don’t be alarmed they still taste the same.”

Some corn on the cob a little later too.

In other news, our monarch caterpillar survived the night!

And much like a breastfed baby, we know he’s getting enough to eat because he’s pooping. A lot.

I’ll leave you tonight with this important message:

Dai Oim.

• True or False
• Sweet Tooth Fairy
• Like a School Girl