Monthly Archives: March 2012

Critter and I were out in the back yard, swinging in the hammock.  I was laying there, marveling at the sweetness of this mother / son time with the sun on our faces and the breeze in our hair.  I enjoyed every moment as we swayed slowly to and fro. I was thoroughly absorbed in my Critter.

Not him, however.  He was fixated on a ‘thing’ that he could see over the wire fence, mostly buried in the leaves.  What was it?  He kept craning his neck to see.

I’m feeling sentimental and maternal;  he’s being….well….a boy.

“MOM! Quit stroking my head!  I’m not a cat!”

Eventually I gave up, let him jump off the hammock (ok, I admit, I had him locked in a half Nelson to keep him with me) and he ran over to the fence to try and figure out what was in the neighbor’s woods.  He couldn’t reach that far through the fence, and there were prickers galore on that side.  We’re talking thistle, raspberry, nettles, etc.   NOT the most hospitable woods.    So I say what any other reasonable parent would say,

“Don’t even think it.”

“Aw Mom!  I’ve totally got it!  I’ll run down to the wooden section of the fence, where I can climb it, then I’ll use this (gestures to cat litter bucket he’d been previously playing in the gravel with) as a shield from the prickers.  Then I can get to it and see what the heck it is!”

I knew there was no stopping him when he has a ‘McGuyver’ tone in his voice, so I let him go.  I figure Pain is an excellent teacher, and that he’ll get scratched a few times and turn around.

But see, I keep forgetting that my boy has passion and drive like I never did.

A few minutes later I hear,

“Mom? A little help here?”

And there he is, well surrounded by briars and barbs in the thicket, cut up as all get out, and looking rather scared.

***sigh***

“Alright.  Don’t move.  I’ll be right there.”

(If this were a movie, this would be where the heroic music starts)

I went to the house, grabbed one of My Captain’s Carhardt canvas work jackets and a step-ladder and went to the section of fence he was nearest.

(It’s important to note at this juncture in the story that I have shorts on, and he has shorts on. Thank you.)

I tossed him the jacket to protect him from further pricker impalement.

(Oh, it’s also important to note that I have a t-shirt on.  Thank you again.)

I put the ladder near the wire fence.  Climbed the fence. Made my way to him (ow, ow, ow, Jeeeeeeeshus Golly OW) in the briars, picked him up, took him back to the fence (ow, ow, ow, Jeeeeshus Golly OW), plopped him back over to our yard, and then ….

….stood there wondering how I would get back over.  He couldn’t lift the ladder to me.  I couldn’t climb the wire, and couldn’t make my way through the briars to the wooden part of the fence.

At this point, I was waiting for My Captain, the Rescue Tech, to look out the window, see me, and come to my rescue.  Then I thought about it and fervently hoped he wouldn’t look out the window and see my predicament.

“Mom?  Should I go get Troy?”

“NO!….er..I mean, uh, no, honey.  That isn’t necessary.  Mommy’s got this.”

I told Critter to lean the ladder against the fence where I was able to use it from the other side to boost at least one of my legs over…where I dangled for a painful minute.

Did I mention there were briars?

Eventually the wire bent under the massive weight it was bearing (ahem) and I was able to get my other leg over, scratching it thoroughly in the process, and landed with a thump in our yard.

“You know what that thing was, Mom?  Just a stupid old birdie from the badminton set we threw out last year.  It’s just trash.”

NnnNNnnnnrrrrrr.

I’ve already described the ridiculousness of our cats and the way they like to sleep in our bidet.  You’d think it would be something that maybe I wouldn’t broadcast all over creation, as it’s so odd.

But that’s not the way I roll.

I’ve got more dirt to dish…within the last month or so, Gracie has started hanging out at the bidet while one of us is using the adjacent potty.

He just hangs out like he’s sidled up to the bar, waiting for the bartender to pour him a nice cool draft.

Yeah, Buddy, I’d look to see if anyone is watching, too.

Please?  Please, Mom?  Won’t you please turn on the water?  Please?

Mmmm!  Slurp!  Lap!  Slurp! Lap!

What?

Aw, don’t be a hater.  Besides, it’s not like anyone will know.

I finished the Poolesville St. Patty’s 5k.  My Varmint was a source of pressure, I will admit.  But regardless of how it happened, I finished it.

Oh, don’t kid yourself, I walked.

And you can also believe that I came in dead last.

But that’s ok.  I like to brag that I’m in a league of my own.

The day started out promisingly.  My Varmint and I woke up to a mostly sunny, but still romantically foggy morning.  We put on our Green St. Patty’s Day duds, and set forth to Poolesville.  I hadn’t had my coffee.  We hadn’t had breakfast.  But we did remember to fill our water bottles.   I did not put Irish Whiskey in mine, though I was sorely tempted.

Varmint was in all the colors of the Irish Flag, and looked so cheery and fresh, I was almost glad to be awake.

Almost.

There was no starting gun.  It was more of a “Welp, ya’ll wanna get started?”

And off we went.

Varmint and I walked, talked, and  laughed as people passed us.  Children passed us.  Babies in strollers passed us.  It wasn’t long before we were bringing up the Rear.  Yes, with a capital “R”. Varmint and I decided to define ourselves as the “Safety Sweep” of the 5K.

We weren’t even 1/3 of the way through when the faster participants passed us on their way to the finish line.  Seriously.

But we had a good time anyways…and frankly, I wasn’t out to hurt myself.  I’m all about feeling good in my old age.

Or my 40’s.

And lets face it, if I die when I’m 50, I’m in my old age right now.

At the parking lot after the event was over, the serious athletes drank Gatorade to rehydrate and replenish electrolytes.

I took Motrin.  800 Milligrams.

Varmint patted my shoulder as if to say, “It’s ok, Mom.  I love you no matter how pathetic you are.”  She’s a good kid.

I guess if I were to sum up the whole experience, it would be this:

And no, I’m not telling you where it had to go.

Tomorrow the little town of Poolesville is having an informal St. Patty’s Day 5K Run/Walk.   When I saw the post on Facebook, I thought to myself, “Hmmm.  I can do that.”

So I commented on the very public Facebook post that I would come.  It’s not like it costs anything, and the only commitment is my word that I would attend.  So if I were to back out, it wouldn’t really cost anybody anything.   I love an open door.  It’s so…non-threatening.

But I made the mistake of telling my kids I was going to do it.  Remember that my Varmint and My Captain are signed up to do the Rockville Run Amuck Obstacle course/5K in late April.  Critter could have cared less, but Varmint got a light in her eyes when I told her about the Poolesville 5K, and said she would do it with me.

Oh Crap.

Now I HAD to follow through.  I don’t know why wanting to follow through and having to follow through are so diametrically opposed in my quirky brain, but they are.  I hate feeling the have-to’s.  But this is my oldest.  My oldest who is constantly seeing her mom screw things up.  Her mom who is constantly disappointing her.  Her mom who is constantly embarrassing her.  I couldn’t let this be added to the heap of let-downs.

So we are both going tomorrow.

Come on…it’s a run/walk!  A walk in the sweet little town I love.  If I can just think about that throughout the entirety, I’ll be ok.  And I’ll envision my Varmint saying as she beams proudly at me, “Mom, you are SO cool!  I’m so glad we could make this memory together!  I wish I can be just like you when I grow up!”  That thought will get me to the end.

That and the fact that McDonald’s is within walking distance of the finish line.

I can’t get a break.

I mean, I know I’m exceedingly lucky to have found such a great husband.  He doesn’t need me to be anything different than what I am.  He loves me unconditionally.

It’a good thing, because I couldn’t be cool if you paid me.  In fact, I seem to spend an inordinate amount of time embarrassing myself.

Take, for instance, last night.  We were going through bedtime routines.  I was lying on my stomach, in bed with a book, and he was in the connected bathroom, brushing his teeth.  I was wearing a cute little nightshirt.

And by cute little nightshirt, I mean a 3X t-shirt with coffee stains on it.

But if you looked at it with your eyes closed,  it was cute.  Just go with me on this.

Anyways,  I was lying there, innocently enough.

And over in the bathroom was My Captain….  Good God Almighty, was he handsome:  shirtless, brushing his teeth in the mirror, muscles relaxed but still prominent. *** sigh***  I was counting my lucky stars,  sending up prayers of gratitude, saying Hail Mary’s, even though I am not Catholic and don’t even know what they are….

…when I felt that all too familiar feeling.

It was definitely coming.  There was no stopping it.

All I could do was engage the silencer and hope for the best.

Sadly for all involved, all the silencer did was draw it out longer and, strangely, in many and varied-pitched intervals.  Almost like a trombone with a slide.  Yes, that is a pretty accurate analogy.  My butt sounded like an old rag/jazz musician going to town on his trombone slide.  It was all over the place.  I mean, there were tones reverberating that could not be easily defined on any musical scale.

I sheepishly peeked over to the bathroom.  My Captain had frozen mid-floss and was staring at me in the mirror incredulously.

“That sounded like a game show sound effect, honey.  That’s a new one, even for you.”

I reached up and tugged the ceiling fan chain to turn it on.

High.

I don’t need to be a sex symbol.  I don’t need to be popular.  But I DO wish I could at least be NOT disgusting.  Let’s face it though, My Captain is stuck with a farting machine.

Is it me, or are an abnormally large percentage of my posts about farting?