Spike's World

Today I invite you to leave commonsense behind and join my family for a beautiful, absurd adventure.

For months, Spike has been talking about her "world". This alternate universe comes up at least twice a day and holds Grandfathers who teach her how to do things and her very own computer and iPad (Apple, of course), a friend named Desi who gets beat up by her brothers and is sometimes mean to Spike and, the most recurring character, her flying horse, Kiyango. Kiyango is referenced so frequently and convincingly that my mom actually got Spikey a Kiyango ornament for Christmas this year. She can tell you everything about her world. She'll even draw you a map, complete with landmarks and detailed step-by-step instruction on how to get there.

With this background, our journey can begin. It started last night, when she demanded we go to her world, so she could retrieve her computer. (Truth be told, I was pretty sympathetic. I hate when you're up against a deadline and forget your dang computer.)

This went on forever until finally a promise to go first thing after breakfast the next day brought the expedition to a halt.

And so, Sunday morning, 12 hours after the initial proposed departure time, me, Hank, Sloppy Joan, JoJo and Mya geared up to fall in line behind our fearless leader Spike, and head for her world.

Because there is a giant pond in Spike's World, she first came down dressed in this little number ...

But settled on some polka dot pants and a more-sensible shoe. Off we went: Two parents, one strapped up with a hairy baby, a dog and an older sister. All following a 3 year old who seemed to know exactly where she was going and was in a huge hurry to get there.

But being the middle child can be tough. And being the middle child getting a lot of attention can be especially tough on the oldest child. And as our adventure advanced, JoJo started poking. First she said she'd "already been there and knew how to get there herself." Ouch. Then she started racing her. Then she started throwing full-on shade about the endeavor in general. 

Daddy dropped the hammer and took big sis home for a little timeout and talking to. Spike couldn't care less. She pressed on, veering off the path and through the common area, chatting the whole way. At one point, we were looking for a rainbow to jump on. A few minutes later, we would be holding hands and dropping from a cliff onto a cloud (How everyone wishes Thelma and Louise would have ended). And then we found a patch of tall, prickly brush and homegirl decided to really go off the grid.

 

I was hesitant ...

She crunched around until a big bird flew by and she decided it was heading for her world and we should track it. We walked by a tree full of Specks and her mind was blown for a solid 3 minutes. "We are here! We are here! We are here!" we chanted.

About 15 minutes into the trek now and "so close" to her world, she came upon a small ditch or stream or trickle of runoff (not sure what one calls this particular body of water).

What followed was a handful of minutes where I watched Spike pump herself up to walk through, essentially, a giant puddle, and then geek out and abort the crossing. We had come to the biggest obstacle on our route to Spike World. A river ran through it, and it was rocking sister's world, until ...

As I went to high five my trailmate, I noticed some dead weight. I looked down and ...

Time for Mom to tap out. As if on cue, Hank, JoJo and the dog came strolling through the grass. Spike was ready to lead them straight through someone's backyard and onto the final destination. Needless to say, I don't think they made it past the cattails.

I am an educated, reasonable, incredibly realistic woman, but I would be lying if I didn't say a small part of me wished a rainbow had dropped down from the sky with Kiyango all saddled up and ready to go. I mean, her imagination is so intricate and contagious, and I think all of us wanted to take a bath in the big pond and shoot the shit with Desi. Alas, it was only a walk. But a fun walk. And as soon as she got home, Spikey came upstairs, put her hand to her mouth and said in my ear, "Mama, tomorrow, I'm going to take you to my world."

Firsts

 

Easter at our house

Sadly, another first holiday as a family of five has too-quickly come and gone. Eggs were hunted. Hair was unruly. And then more eggs were hunted. And then candy was had by all. (Real quick, doesn't it kind of look like Sloppy Joan has bunny ears in this top picture?)

While we would all live to regret our poor, sweet, sugary choices that day, as well as those made in the days following, the buzz did drive us outside, where we enjoyed one of the most beautiful days we've had so far. We walked, and chased bubbles in the wind and dialed in our bikes. JoJo even took her training wheels off for a hot minute. It was a great day. Three little chicks, a bunny and some sunshine ... what more could a woman want? Maybe this picture ...

Putting on my training heels

Tune in today to see if she can … hatch a half marathon training plan.

There is something so romantic about being a runner. Rising with the sun. Worn sneakers with soles that trap and hold stories of triumph and trial. Lean arms that swing and pump and plead for one more mile. The pain. The glory. The reward of making it farther than ever before. It’s the most awe-inspiring example of the power of will. Of course I’ve never experienced these things personally (I know, I really sold it in those first few sentences), but when I watch people pounding the pavement on my drive in to work, I momentarily crush on their endurance. The fact that they're out there. That they are runners. And then I think, damn it, I want to be a runner.  

The natural retort here would be, “Then go run, fool!” but the truth is, it isn’t that easy. To put it nicely, I am stride challenged. I have all the ambition, but none of the athleticism. I learned several years ago that I am great at moving up and down, and terrible at moving forward; a problem, some would say, when it comes to covering distance.

In high school, we had something called Summer Gym. The program was a requirement for athletes and basically a form of torture for hormonal adolescents in which we were turned out in 98-degree conditions and told to run, dash through tires and look disgusting in front of every boy we ever liked. The climax of Summer Gym was the infamous run to Lion’s Park. Let’s call it 3 miles round trip. My girlfriends pulled the period card and bailed, leaving me and my yet-to-be-diagnosed stationary stride. About 1 mile in, it became clear my only hope was a stamp transfer. Please, god of teenagers, let me get a stamp transfer. When a runner reached the park, they received a Sharpie stamp on the back of their hand before looping back to finish the course at the school. Runner after runner came back at me, Sharpie mark flashing, until I finally spotted a cheerleader comrade. We locked eyes, desperation in mine, pity in hers. She pressed her Sharpie against the back of my sweaty hand. We held them there for maybe a full minute. Nothing. There was no hope now. I was going to have to run the rest of the route. Worse yet, the group couldn’t stretch and leave for the day until every single runner returned. I finished dead last. They sent a football player to get me. I believe his words of encouragement were, “Move your ass!” if memory serves.   

Since that fateful day, I have been chasing down redemption. I want to run a half marathon more than anything. I’ve walked it three times, with a little jogging peppered in. But this is the year. I have developed a very detailed 5-part action plan for how I am going to come at it.

1. Pick a race and sign up.
Done. It’s at the end of September in my hometown.

2. Get some new kicks.
I always end up with Brooks Adrenalines, but I’ll still go to our local running store for my biannual analysis because I like watching my feet on camera and imposing my self-deprecating commentary on the sales guy.  

3. Train to train.
There is this wonderful gal at work who runs the real deal races. She has helped several other people come up with a kickass training program, so I picked one I liked and sent it to her. She asked how far, frequently and fast I am currently running. I sent my stats. Her response was sweet and thoughtful and she (summarized) basically suggested I use the program I had found to get me ready to start a real training program in July. So, I need to train to train. I get it. That’s where I’m at. Truth is a liquor best served straight up. So, I’m starting my pretraining training program today.

4. Train.
In July, I will begin one of Hal Higdon’s Half Marathon Novice training programs. I’ll have to give this more thought when I get there.

5. Find some sucker.

I have solicited a few friends to join me, with some interest returned. I had a great walking partner, who very politely passed on trying to run the thing. I worry about someone with a quick or long stride because, as we’ve established, this is not my jam. I need someone who is determined to finish, but not super speedy. 

So, here we go … 26 weeks and counting!

It's Turbo time

Tune in today to see if she can … tackle a Turbo Kick class.

When I was in high school, my parents had this dog, Faith. Faith started out as my brother’s dog, but a pattern of puppy passing was beginning and she eventually went to my folks. She was a weird blend of breeds and we often referred to her as Santa’s Little Helper (you know, from the Simpson’s). I am a big believer that people get one, maybe two, great four-legged companions in life, and the rest tend to be just … well, dogs. Faith was a dog. She was nervous and jittery and her hair fell out in clumps. But saddest of all, in her golden years, Faith started having the wackiest seizures. Honest to Henry, I once saw her come up onto her two back legs and hop across the kitchen, twitching like a kangaroo covered in fire ants. It was awful and, admittedly a little funny now, but I bring it up here for a very good reason. Tonight, I was Santa’s Little Helper.

At my best friend’s urging, I decided to try Turbo Kick. She, conveniently, was away for my debut and unable to witness the chaos that was my attempt at the routine or, better phrased, the complete collapse in communication between my brain and my extremities. 

So many of my basic neurological functions failed me. The jabs … the uppercuts … the roundhouses … it was a system overload no one could have seen coming. I felt like the drunk girl at a dry reception. It’s not the single action so much as the combinations; combinations that repeated but never formed a logical sequence in my brain. And people were hooting. No judgement. Whatever gets ya juiced up. But it did make the tone a little like exercising in the rain forest exhibit at the zoo. 

Just when a faint whisper of confidence, in the form of a knee-up-crossbody-jab series, crept closer, the instructor threw out a “jack with air”. I froze … an ironic choice of words considering I was sweating like Martha Stewart at a tax audit. It was intimidating in its simplicity. A jumping jack where the exerciser is expected to come a handful of inches up off the ground. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was my temporary coordination drought. Maybe I just failed at rule no. 76, to play like a champion. But I could not do it. Every time she came to “jack air” I faltered. Until finally …

I went for it. I anticipated it was coming and I used the last of the gas in my tubby-girl tank and leaped. Only, it didn’t look like everyone else’s. It was special. It was more spasm than sporty. It was a dolphin changing its mind mid-trick. It was so Santa’s Little Helper! It’s now my Everest.

 After the class, the regulars were so sweet. Three of them actually came up and told a few of us we, “Did great for our first time.” Imagine that … strangers talking to strangers. What a concept. I think I’ll go back just for the stellar social scene.  

Until next time …

Gopher Day goes awry

April 1, 2015 was Gopher Day in my little suburban slice of the world. It’s the day when neighbors, whom you haven’t seen in months, pop out to give a smile and subtle wave to signal the official close of hibernation. Masculine machines are firing up … trimming, whacking, pruning. I feel that familiar face sweat beading into formation in the sunlight through my car window. Hello, old friend! The songs sound catchier. Traffic flows like a good piece of gossip among girlfriends. It’s my favorite day of the whole year. 

I pulled in my driveway to find the chicks, in various states of sweet spring activity – JoJo pushing Sloppy Joan around in an umbrella stroller. Spikey stepping up to her big girl bike with tottering training wheels. This is some serious utopian stuff, I thought … like a moron.

Any mom worth her salt knows that picturing perfection and your kids in the same space for more than a handful of minutes is a rookie assumption, sure to implode before you, leaving in its wake stinging shrapnel made of pinches, pokes and hysterics.

But this was Gopher Day! So I put history and intuition aside, and embarked on a sure-to-be-blissful jaunt around the park. And then, like the shittiest April Fools joke ever, all hell began to break loose. First, JoJo decided to abandon the bike she was on to push Sloppy Joan, which, it would turn out, meant big sis sprinting while a wide-eyed baby sat, white-knuckled with her prominent whale-spout pony flapping violently atop her head.

But this juvenile joyride was nothing compared to Spike, or as she will henceforth be called, “The Girl Who Killed Gopher Day”. Our 3 year old is notorious for bailing. Every hike, walk or bike ride to date has ended with her in a puddle of pout on a sidewalk. It’s embarrassing and it really brings my Supermom mojo down. To assume today would be different just because the sun was shining was naïve, I admit it, but I let her hop on her new Hello Kitty bike and get after it. I’d say about .2 of a mile in, we were in good shape. By .3, we were having steering issues. And by .4 we were standing next to the steed, contemplating the next move.

Sensing a general frustration and seeing smoke off JoJo’s heels, I simply suggested Spike leave the bike, walk with us and then practice when we came back around. If my future self could have intercepted the words from the mouth of my present self, everyone would have come through just fine. But there was no going back.

Me: Babe, let’s just go enjoy the walk and we’ll try again when we come back this way.

Spike: But Mama …

Me: Spikey, it’s such a beautiful day, let’s go try to catch JoJo!

Spike: No, I want to ride my big girl bike!

Me: Then hop on and steer it, like you were before.

Spike: It’s not working, Mama!

Me: OK, then let’s just walk for now.

Spike: No!

Me: Honey, Mommy’s gotta go catch up with your sisters. You coming?

Spike: No! I want to ride my bike!

Me: OK, well then you need to head home, hon.

Spike: Noooooo! I wanna ride my bike! [cue tears]

Me: Spikey, I’m not doing this here.

Spike: [cue screams]

Me: I have to go now. [Walks away nervously splitting my eyes to keep one on each set of children.]

Spike: [Screaming, blubbering dialogue I can’t decipher]

Me: [Runs back, picks Spike up and puts her in our fence. Neighbors at a standstill.]

Hank: [Chases Spikey around the backyard like a farmer after a greasy pig until he catches and carries her, sack-of-potatoes style, into the house, where screams can still be heard because the windows are open because, you know, it’s freaking Gopher Day.]

JoJo, Sloppy Joan and I continued on our loop, which was, all things considered, nice.

I was naïve. I see that now. I thought I would be taking a mental snapshot of my three little ladies riding and strolling and smiling on the first sunny day of spring, and I would want to write about it and store it away in my heart forever. But I’m writing about this. And you know, sometimes that’s just the way walks go.   

What the scale said in March

This is a depressing update because the scale said I was still overweight, basically. It did. not. move. For a whole month. One of our longest months at that. It wasn’t like it was February, which is so short no one can, realistically, get anything done.

The scale says:

Down – 28.4

To Go – 18.6

The humiliation is good, guys, really … it’s good. I mean, I need a tablespoon or twenty of humility. (See how I equate everything to food?) A week goes by and you eat a tub of Trader Joe’s Dark Chocolate Almond Bark Thins and a few Apple Fritters, and you think, Monday is the day. The day I search Amazon for more Trader Joe’s chocolate. I blame the Mayans and Aztecs, actually.  

But, April – sweet, spring-has-sprung April – that’s where it’s at. “A” is for “April” and “A game”.  

The plan. The progress.*
Whole30 – Completed February 5 (100%). Considering another round (post-Easter, of course). Any takers?

Kayla Itsines 12-week Bikini Body – On Week 9 (75%). This guide is badass. More to come.

Join a Gym – Officially members and regularly attending Spinning and attempting TurboKick tomorrow. Aw, snap Billy Blanks, what! (80%)

Clean Eating – Why do I even keep this on the list? Note to self: Meal prep is magical. Get back to what works. (-2.1%)

Half Marathon – I am registered. I have also selected a training program to get me to a place where I can do my real training program come July. This was a realization best served by someone else. In my case, a coworker who moonlights as a marathoner, but more to come on that later. (1%)

Calorie Tracking – It sucks. Keeping a food journal is like the ultimate sensory cock block. The smells aren’t as sweet. The bites aren’t as beautiful. It’s all one big finger in your face, disgracing your dairy and desserts. But I’ll be damned if it doesn’t work. (Unless you’re Whole30-ing.)

Hiking – Got my boots and JoJo chose a hiking trip to mark her 6^th birthday in May. We’re going places. (3%)

Yoga – Every Sunday (10%)

Slim & Sassy essential oil – I sip on this stuff at least twice a week. I don’t know how I’ll know when I know it’s doing something. (5%)

*These percentages are based on complete bullshit because I don’t know how to do math or quantify something like “Clean Eating”.