Time Flies

This morning Miles cried when I left, which was a first. 

I wasn't ready to do the right thing by being strong.  I caved and held him again and kissed his fat little cheeks and let him cling to my neck for a few more moments. 

Brittany and I were able to get him calmed down with a binky and Super Why (his favorite show).  But it was kind of sweet in a weird way - not that I want him to cry or be sad. But it was nice knowing that he would miss me today as much I would miss him. 

Tomorrow my baby turns 11 months old, and it's got me thinking about how quickly this year has gone by.  He's so big now! Walking and getting into everything.  This morning he put a weeble toy in the toilet.  It's like he's obsessed with all the things he shouldn't want to play with!  (trash can, toilet, toilet wand, etc.)  He's also obsessed with chasing the cat around the h.ouse, exclaiming  "Ga! Ga!" 

Sadie is not amused.

But this age is so much fun.  I am finally getting why people have like four or five of these! Not that I want to...

Apple of My Eye

A funny little story - on Friday I was at Panera with my mom, sister and Miles.  All during our lunch I was giving Miles chunks of honeydew melon and canteloupe, which he loved.  A few minutes later he grabbed the apple off my sister's tray and started gnawing on it, sinking his little teeth into the fruit.  It must have felt good on his little gums.
Mom and I grabbed our phones and snapped a few pictures.  We were laughing at how adorable he looked holding this apple. It was so cute!
Until a few minutes later when he choked for a second on a piece of skin.  He gagged a little - then yakked up formula and honeydew all over himself and the table and carpet. 
One beat of silence - then my sister and I burst into laughter.  As soon as I realized he was fine, I couldn't help cracking up.  It was so out of the blue, and it reminded me how life with a kid can turn on a dime. 
One second you're reveling in the beauty of your child, and the next you're on the floor of Panera cleaning up puke. 

Playing Chase

Last night after Robert got home, he and Miles played chase.  That's their favorite game. 
It's always starts out really cute, because Miles has the most delighted laugh.  Adorable, melt your heart, belly laughter.  But I usually wind up standing in the kitchen, anxious, because I know what I'm about to hear: Miles crying  after he's fallen and hurt himself somehow. 

It seems like ever since he started walking, he's been falling.  It's so hard not to rush to him and comfort, soothe and hold him.  This is what I struggle with daily.  Because I don't want him to be a whiner or a kid who thinks he is hurt when he isn't.  So I attempt to hang back and be cool, waiting to see if he really needs me.

Over the weekend he fell, and I rushed to him, while Robert said, "Don't pick him up.  He's okay."  But mamas know the difference between a cry that means "I'm hurt" and a cry that means "I'm mad that I fell."  And this was an "I'm hurt" kind of cry. 

And he was.  Poor little dude cut his lip on one of those four crazy baby teeth he has.  There was a little blood. 

I surprised myself by being calmer than I would've thought - especially since I was about to walk out the door.  We put a teething ring on his lip, which made it better.  And I held him on my lap for several minutes, which made me feel better. 

And it struck me that this is what motherhood is all about -  knowing how to find that elusive balance between being there too much and not being there enough. 

Sometimes I lie in bed, freaking myself out because he is ALL the way downstairs (where he has been sleeping since he was three months old!), worried that he might need me but somehow be unable to cry out for me.  And then I remind myself that he is turning into a little boy; he is a person who needs his own bed, his own space. 

I know that I will always have to work on that sense of balance when it comes to my baby.   Has any mom ever achieved it successfully? Probably not.  But I guess being a mama means you have to try.

I Am a Runner

Even typing that title gives me anxiety.  Never in a million years would I have thought I could EVER describe myself as a runner.  It is hard.  It is exhausting.  And it makes me feel so, so strong.

Usually I run about three times a week.  I am up to running a little over two miles without stopping, but my goal is three; this is because I'll be running a 5K in two weeks.  It's only my second time to run the 5K - the first time was two years ago, and I cried running across the finish line.  I literally could not believe I had done it.  I just never saw myself as a "runner" because runners are thin, athletic, and their jeans always fit.  They don't drink beer or crave Andy's frozen custard on a daily basis.

Yesterday Miles and I went to the MKT together.  He sucked on a frozen piece of honeydew melon for most of the run while also babbling at the trees and birds and other trail goers.  I ran two miles without stop, and the last half mile was a killer.  Pushing an extra twenty-some pounds really takes it out of your energy level!

When I run in my neighborhood, I have a mile course I've plotted out for myself that I run at least twice.  There are some slight hills that I feel lend a sense of reality of what the 5K course will be like.  I usually run around 7:15 in the evening, after helping get Miles ready for bed.  I throw on my jogging bra, lace up my pink Nikes, and head out the door, turning right out the driveway. 

I only walk for thirty seconds or so before getting started.  There are very distinct smells at every section of my course - downwind of Sonic it smells like a carnival, greasy fried food and dust.  Later on there's a spot that usually smells like spray paint, and about six houses down from ours the air smells like Ramen noodles every single time.  My favorite smells are when someone is cutting their lawn, and when I wipe the sweat off my face around mile one, my hands smell like Johnson & Johnson lavendar baby lotion. This make me think of Miles and always brings a smile to my face.

But what I love best about running is that it's not for anyone else but me.  Unlike everything else in my life, no one else depends on my success.  It feels strange to be committed to this new addiction of mine.  And really good to do something both healthy and completely selfish. 

Green (and Gold) Day

Sometimes when I imagine what it'll be like to leave Rock Bridge / Columbia, I imagine Green Day singing "Time of Your Life" as a montage of clips scroll by - me with my students and friends living it up in Columbia, my home of the last seven years. 

Sometimes, like today, the sadness squeezes so tight that I don't think I can hold back the tears for one more minute. 

I have been slowly cleaning out desk drawers, folders and file cabinets - recycling, giving away and packing all the crap I've inexpicably held onto for the past several years.  There are papers from kids who are gone - dead or graduated, and papers from kids I had forgetten all about.  Old lesson plan books, conference notes and handouts all serve as reminders of who I was and am as a teacher, what a huge part of my life has been all about. 

It's making me sentimental, and I'm trying not to romanticize it all, but taking this step is huge and scary. 
I'm sad.
Leaving is going to be really, really hard. 
 
I got choked up today, reading a story from a book about Vietnam called The Things They Carried that has never made me emotional before.  I realized it's because this may be the last time I'll teach this story, this book, this unit.  It's about saying good-bye.  Not just to the kids or my classroom of the last seven years, or even this school.  But to everyone I know here, my town, my second home. 

Hello, Blog

It has been a looooong time since I've last blogged.  I'm not sure why - I hate when people say they've been too busy to do something.  (If it means something to you, you'll make time for it.)  So I won't use that excuse.  But life does get in the way sometimes of even the best intentions.

Miles is growing and changing and becoming a sweet little boy, no longer the little baby I used to rock and cuddle and kiss. I still rock and cuddle and kiss on him - every chance I get.  But usually that's followed by him squirming away or getting distracted by someone or something else.  Now we bond by playing games and giggling, belly laughing at each other, and making messes.  It is so fun to be his mom, which innevitably gets me thinking about the possibility of having another. 

When I think about whether or not I'd like to give Miles a little brother or sister, the answer is yes! When I ask myself if I'm willing to go through the pregnancy and birth again, the answer is yes! But when I'm honest about wanting to go through the baby part again, I'm not sure.  I loved Miles from the second I knew he was inside me - and that love only intensifies every day, with each smile, toddle, nose crinkle, love pat and babble.  But what if we had another kid who was not as cool as Miles?  What if I loved him / her differently?  Those first six months are really, really hard. 

I know I don't have to decide now, or even next month.  But it makes me feel a little guilty, thinking about not giving him a sibling.  I know many people grow up just fine being an only child, but I also know how much I love and appreciate having a sister.  It's an option on the horizon, which is where I'll keep it for now...

Butterfly Effect

My freshman year of college my best friend Gina and I were lying aournd my dorm room on the bunk beds looking up tattoo parlors in the phone book.  Majestic Tattoo was close by, and I had remembered seeing its green neon sign, so we jumped in my '89 red Beretta and drove the few blocks.  I knew exactly what I wanted, so I had an easy time choosing an image from the parlor wall.  Meanwhile Gina looked and looked for one she liked well enough to live with forever.  I could hear the buzz of the tattoo gun from down the hall.  Extreme nervousness and excitement bubbled inside me as I wated my turn.

Soon a burly man in a black T shirt ushered me into a small room.  He had dirty gray hair and a bushy beard; he must've weighed 300 pounds or more.  The smell of rubbing alcohol and stale tobacco hung in the air.  The gun came to life and buzzed against my skin, which stung a lot more than I was expecting, especially as he rubbed the needle into my flesh to fill in the color, then wiped away the excess ink and blood.

Ten minutes and $40 later I had a blue and purple butterfly on my left hip.  Gina left with nothing.  I showed off my new tat at a party that very night, peeling back the sticky tape and guaze.  A few months later I finally showed it to my mom; we were bathing suit shopping so I sort of had no choice.  I was expecting a lecture, but she just rolled her eyes.  "That's forever, you know," she said.  And, as is often true with things moms say, she was right.  

It's still there, eighteen years later.  It's been faded by the sun and stretched by pregnancy, but that buttlerfly still spreads her wings on my hip as a reminder of a younger, more impulsive me.