In Training... Confession to Wandee.

So, I'm training for a triathlon.  It's a sprint triathlon.  1/4 mile swim, 13 mile bike, and 5K run. Nothing huge to many who are much crazier than I am, but a ridiculous idea to someone like my dad.  But then again, he thinks that the 24 hour workout is a great idea.  What's the 24 hour workout?  Well, that's easy.  You figure out how many days it would take you to get into great shape by working out one hour every day.  Let's say that you're in need of 6 months to get into great shape, well, then you just work out for 180 hours straight, and you'll be in perfect condition in 7 1/2 days instead of 6 months.

I think his philosophy is flawed, so I have been training for this September triathlon for a couple of months.

Now, I love the biking part.  It's great.  And the running... Even running feels good if I can hit my stride, but the swimming.  Ugh.

The swimming.

First of all, there is the problem of breathing.  You can't just breathe when you need to breathe, taking a full breath and, you know, letting it out and taking another one.  No.  You have to do this whole bilateral breathing and breath control thing.

Then there's the hours.  Lap swim where there are actually lanes available occurs at 5-7:30am.  Now I don't know about you, but the idea purposefully waking up that early to jump into a pool to not breathe enough and flail through the water for a while does not sound like a great idea.  My friend, Wandee, claims that it is "refreshing."  I think that she is confusing "refreshing" with "torture."

It might be cool if I could breathe underwater like Aquawoman or something.  Or if I had been born part fish like my hubby or something, but I am merely a normal mammal who flails around in the water.

So I find myself not waking up early to swim on principle of "I am not a stupid person, and waking up at 6am to jump into a cold pool and torture myself is stupid."  So I wait until later in the day when there are water aerobics classes happening in the lap swim area and one lane open for swimming and 5 people in the lane begging to kick me in the face and make me feel like I'm drowning anyway.  So... I sit in the hot tub for the amount of time I was supposed to be swimming, enjoy my kid-free time, and leave telling myself, there was really nothing I could do.  The pool was just too busy. I'll just get my swim in tomorrow after my run.  


But guess what.  I don't wake up to run at 6am, and the pool is closed for lap swim at 9.  Which means that I don't swim.

I would wake up early to swim, but it's just too stupid.  And I am not stupid.

Research and Espresso

On Sunday, Jeff and I were driving along in the car drinking scalding coffee on a disgusting 94 degree day. We were still sweating with the AC cranked because of the ridiculous Colorado sun beating down through the window, and I kept taking sips of the molten liquid wanting to die because of the heat but knowing that I would surely perish if there was no caffeine in my system... which really makes no sense if you think about it, but don't think about it.

So I think aloud and say, "You know, I really need to figure out how to do an iced coffee properly.  I've tried and tried, but I just can't seem to get it right."

"Well," he said, "have you researched it at all, honey?"

"I think it has to have that syrup stuff to get it right."

"Maybe you should look it up when we get home."

We sat in happy (well, as happy as one can be in nasty heat drinking super hot coffee) silence for a few moments while I concocted iced coffee drinks in my mind and he, I'm sure, went to the baseball place in his.  And suddenly I thought, how cool that he just encouraged me to learn about this iced coffee thing.  I love it when he's supportive like that and wants me to learn about the stuff I want to learn about.

So I said, "That's really neat that you are so supportive about me wanting to make good coffee."

"Really?" he said, "because what I was really thinking was why haven't you looked it up yet, you idiot?  You know you can find out anything you need to know in about 30 seconds on the internet."

Which, of course, I found hilarious, but not quite as sweet.  Jeff tried to convince me that it was even sweeter since he thought that but didn't say it out loud.

But you know what?  It never even occurred to me to look up how to make an iced espresso drink without an espresso machine on the internet.  I was content to just keep concocting things until the sweltering heat/ coffee combined with Jeff's oh so loving encouragement inspired me to research.  Sure I know that if it was super important for me to get it right, I would've looked it up and gotten it right, but it wasn't important.  I was just playing.  And I love thinking that way... by playing.  What would happen if I add a little of this or mixed in a lot of that?

Not Jeff, no sir.  By golly, you want to know something or be able to do something, you find out how to do it right and you follow every single direction and if you miss something, no matter how important or unimportant, you take it all apart and start over.

And this, to me, is hilarious and weird.

I guess the fact that Jeff approaches life with a completely different and many times opposite viewpoint is what has always fascinated me about him, made him such a challenge to me... and we all know how I need to be challenged.

The other part of that is while I am busy trying to conquer this challenge of understanding the way that this mysterious man thinks, I forget how great it works to be with an opposite.  You see, I am sitting here drinking a very tasty homemade caramel macchiato.  This never would have happened if I had not been encouraged to research by my handsome data-driven husband.

Guess it will always "challenge" him that I want to play to solve problems.  And I'm sure it will continue to make me shake my head when everything he does, buys, builds, or creates is scrupulously researched prior to  making the first move.

Maybe that's why he was staring at me so much the night we met.... Research.

“The wai-aiting is the hardest part…” -Tom Petty

 Note:  So sorry to have kept you waiting on this, the next Ugly Tree Blog Post.  I have been hosting a family reunion for my in-laws for the past few days and thus drinking more margaritas than usual.   These two things combined with two children to care for and a husband who worked 80+ hours Sunday to Sunday last week made for not a spare minute to blog.  If you have been waiting for a Mattie update, she is still doing awesome.  If all continues to go well this week, she will be getting her chest tube out and heading home soon!  Hooray!

There is something that my dad has been doing for the past 17 years.  Waiting.  And finally, the wait, for him, is over. 

It all started with me.  Well, sort of.  I was playing Little League Softball.  My mom was coaching our team.  It was awful.  I don’t know if anyone else has observed this, but a 12 year old girl and her mother are not usually a pretty sight to behold.  Mostly, they are at each other’s throats.  My mom and I were no different at this age, so you can imagine the frustration that ensued with her as my coach.  I’m sure that it had much to do with the fact that she throws like a girl.  Don’t say that to her.   She’ll argue with you about it.  And that’s not to say that she’s not tough.  She definitely is to be feared, but… she throws like a girl.  And as a 12 year old girl, I wouldn’t listen to her as my coach.

So…my dad stepped in, thinking, at first, that he did not want to coach girls.  Coaching girls was silly.  Or  some other adjective.  Regardless, he was reluctant.  So he was only going to coach my teams until I was in high school.  Well, then I was a freshman in high school and the Varsity coach died tragically and unexpectedly.  So, my dad started coaching the Varsity team.  And he was only going to coach until I graduated.  But that first year, his first team made it to the State Semi-finals.  We lost.  And the next year, back to the Semi-finals.  Lost again.  Back this time to the State Finals.  And we lost again. This process was repeated like that for 17 years.

My dad does not know how to do this losing thing.  He doesn’t.  Failure isn’t an option.  He’s never had a losing season.  Never.  I don’t even know what his worst season’s record is, but I’m sure it probably includes about 30 or so wins in a 38ish game season.  (If you do well in the playoffs, which his team inevitably does.) 

The point is, he finally won the State Title.  Finally.  After 17 years of coaching high school softball and a ton of State Quarter-Final, Semi-Final, and State Final appearances.

Now, softball and baseball players and coaches are notoriously superstitious.  Don’t talk about a no-hitter or perfect game until it’s over.  Don’t wash your socks during a winning streak.  Wear your pants a certain way if you’re on a hitting streak.  The people of Clinton Softball are no different, saying things like, “the mustache must’ve been holding you back,” since after a lifetime (my entire lifetime) of a mustached face, he finally shaved it in the off-season.

But I know the truth.  The truth is that my dad is getting old.  And his whole life, he’s been coaching, parenting, living with closed fists pointing out the way that he wants things to go.  He’s been grabbing on to the steering wheel with white knuckles his whole life, trying to pave the road with the wheels of his car, climb over rocks and through small rivers while driving an escort. 

And like I said, he’s getting old.  Which means that his hands are starting to cramp up unless he opens them and lets go of the steering wheel a little.  And I think… I think he let go of the steering wheel a little and he might be starting to find out that by golly, there’s a nice smooth paved road over there with a bridge that his escort can easily climb over and maybe he doesn’t need to buy that jeep to get there.

And the thing about getting old is that we start to find out that when we finally get something we’ve been waiting for so long, on the tail of the celebration rides the thought, What’s next? 

Which means that the important thing is really the work and the wait for the celebration, but then again, don’t we need something to work and wait for?  I don’t know.  Maybe I’m not old enough to really get it yet.  I guess I’ll have to go ask my dad.

Mattie 14 Tetrology of Fallot 0

Hey Hey!
Team Mattie Mae scored another big touchdown.  Mattie's out of ICU and into Mama's Arms in Moderate Care.  


Lisa's Blog:
http://ridiculousnesswiththeroberts.blogspot.com/

I'm starting wonder, though about this football game metaphor, though... I'm not sure what will signal Game Over for Tetrology of Fallot.  I'm not sure I really care as long as Mattie's winning;) 

Peculiar Orifice Oozing Problems

My children have orifice oozing problems.  Not sure if it’s allergies or just kid stuff, but their noses are always running, and they are always slobbering all over something. 

One of my least favorite moves both of my boys make is when they are given a treat that they can hold in their hands, they love on that treat.  They savor that treat.  If it is the last M&M they are given, it could last an hour.  Seriously one M&M.  One hour of dripping slobbery brightly-colored chocolaty saliva on sticky hands that touch everything in the house if I am not hovering over that one teeny tiny M&freakinM.

Now, don’t get me wrong, my favorite thing about summertime is watching my little boys outside and filthy.  Blue popsicle that dripped all the way to elbows, then caked in dirt so that there are brown rings of filth all over arms and legs.  That is exactly how a boy should look in the summertime… OUTSIDE.  Maybe that’s why it’s a summertime thing, because you can be outside all summer.

I’m wondering, though, when the oozing will end and when it ends, will I miss it?  I remember wondering when the spit up would stop.  Nolan spit up constantly for about 9 months.  It took him a long time to outgrow that, but he did.  Eventually.  And I miss the itty bitty newborn spitup thing because it was cute and precious and sweet.  But the drooling and the slobbering and the runny nose thing… It seems as though this stage will last forever.

The worst one in this stage, that seems will never end is pee and poop.  Daniel is potty-trained.  He pees and poops in the potty almost all of the time.  Yet… I am still constantly dealing with poop.  Yesterday I was walking around my own home barefoot.

Unbeknownst to me, this hilarious, yet disgusting and loyal mound of wonder was squatting at  the ready on my bedroom floor.  The teeny mound of poo was just waiting for me to walk through to change my clothes when squish.  Ah poo.  The old loyal companion.  Will you ever stay where I expect you to?  Will you always show up where I don’t want you?  Oh, Poo.  Please find your way into the potty.  Every. Single. Time.

I guess this is asking too much.  He tried.  He was doing great.  He pooped in the potty, forgot to wipe, sat on my bedroom floor to put his Handy Manny underoos back on and left his loyal friend for mama’s foot.

Oh poo.  Later that day you closed down the Rec center pool.  Ah yes, my husband’s child had an oops fart (AKA shart) on his way down the waterslide.  I think he was a little nervous.  Nevertheless, poo out of the shorts and into the pool.  Gives the phrase “Droppin the kids off at the pool” new meaning.  I think we need to do some re-teaching on that… So embarrassing.  SO EMBARRASSING.

Oh well.  Poo is a companion who is here to stay for a while.  It’s a good thing, I know.  I just wish he would stay where he belongs.  I know the day will come when I think, remember when the boys drooled all over everything and they used to say, “Snot! Mama, I have snot!”  Remember when Danny pooped in the rec center pool and closed it down?! That was kind of hilarious.  I guess that day will come when the Peculiar Orifice Oozing Problems have been solved, and the oozing is generally contained.

Touchdown Mattie!

I can hear it, can’t you?  First touchdown has been scored.  Mattie’s out of surgery, tubes hooked up properly, nestled cozily in the ICU.  She’s up 6-0.  But what’s this?  Goin for 2 extra points?  And the pass is good with rosy cheeks and pink feet.  Mattie Mae 8-Tetrology of the Fallot 0.

And the band plays;)  Touchdown Mattie.

http://www.fightmusic.com/mp3/big10/Michigan__Hail_To_The_Victors.mp3

Now, I don’t know about you, but if I were an icky heart condition, I’d be scared when I looked at Mattie Mae’s team.  First of all, if the sheer number of jerseys along with all the prayers being sent up to The Big Guy isn’t enough to send that Tetrology of the Fallot running, how about the awesome U of M doctors and nurses?  Do I even need to keep going? Grand Daddy Mattie is leading the defense to keep T of F from gaining any yardage, and of course, there is a star running back Daddy who could be superman for all you know, stinkin T of F… and do you really want to even think about Mattie’s Mama?

When I first met Lisa back in high school, it was some sort of Roberts tradition to inform others who carried themselves in a confident manner to inform them that they were “not tough.”  Lisa was one of these confident souls, so Ken and I dutifully informed her that she was, “not tough.”  I think it ticked her off a little, ticked her off enough to stand up to Ken and endure countless trials of her toughness.  She was daring enough for a late-night Denny’s outing, she dished out as much teasing as Ken did to her, and withstood eau de Kenneth… all with a bright beautiful, dimpled smile.  And I know no other woman who could handle graduate school graduation, a move across the country, a new home, a complete remodel of said new home, a new career, a new marriage, and a new baby with a major heart condition all within twoish short years with the grace, style, sense of humor and… toughness of Lisa Roberts.  We were wrong, Lisa (Mattison) Roberts.  You are tough.  Tougher than I hope I’ll ever have to be.

And the one star player that I haven’t yet mentioned… Precious little Mattie Mae with the yellow bow on her head.  And even though I’ve seen her in pink ruffled tights, 

she might prove to be even tougher than her mama.

It is only the end of the first quarter, but she’s leading the team in yards, sacks and interceptions. Oh, Miss Mattie Mae, you make me proud to be a part of your team, even though I’m just standing on the sidelines trying to be a sports writer.

A Little Boy and His Blankie

I have a word for the things in our home that are worn and broken and dirty.  A word for the dog-eared, scribbled on, tatter-covered books.  A word for a 25 year-old noseless teddy bear.  A word for a filthy chewed on, carried everywhere blankie. 

The word is “loved.”

Nolan has a nigh-night  (blankie).  It is adorable and hilarious how much he loves this nigh-night.  And aside from “Mine!” and “Ow!”, it is the most recognizable word he can speak.  Every morning, he stands up in his crib, throws out his nigh-night, and promptly cries and cries, reaching for this most loved comfort object.  “Nigh-Night!” he yells over and over until Mama or Da comes in to pull him out of his crib and reconnect him to his beloved nigh-night.  We lose nigh-night regularly because of Nolan’s Linus-like attachment to it.  But nigh-night always comes back.  It gets stuck between the crib and the wall.  It gets tucked behind the couch, under Danny’s bed, shoved in the toy bin… 

And I started metaphoring, cause that’s what I do lately, and I thought, maybe this is how God treats us.

We are “loved.” Tattered and worn, fraying at the edges.  He cuddles us, holds us.  He carries us around everywhere, through the dirt and mud.  

We hide from Him often.  We think He abandoned us behind the couch.  We think he left us under the bed.  We lay in a heap in a dark bin alone and scared.

We feel like we need to get tossed in the wash and stay away from Him until we are clean.

But the truth is, He wants to carry us no matter how much we stink or how filthy we are.  And when we are hiding behind the couch, or stuck in the dark toy bin, thinking we have been abandoned, thinking we are alone, He can think of nothing but us, nothing but getting us back in His arms where we belong.

And when I am being dragged through the mud, I usually think that God hates me and doesn’t want anything good to happen to me.  But maybe I am just being “loved.”  Maybe He’s dragging me through the mud because he wants to keep me close, and He can’t bear the thought of me getting lost again. And maybe each stain, each hole, each thread-bare spot is a beautiful reminder of just how loved we really are.