Whenever I go running, Robbie begs to go with me.  It doesn’t matter if I’m going to the gym to hit the treadmill or running outside in the rain.  He always wants to go.  Usually (always) I just want to get my run over with, and, in all honesty, I’m worried about improving my times a little (or at least staying consistent).  But yesterday morning, Robbie and I made a plan.  We were going running.  Together.

I got home late yesterday, and I expected Robbie to have found something else to do.  He hadn’t.  As soon as I got home, he climbed off Justin’s lap and told me he had to change into his running clothes.  Five minutes later, we were ready: Robbie, Barkley, and me.  Robbie decided he wanted to run up to the pond to see the ducks, half a mile away.  I just hoped we’d make it to the stop sign .2 miles down the street.

The run started out, well, fun.  We talked about Robbie’s day (there was something about a pirate and chasing his friend with a map).  Robbie encouraged Barkley (“Come on, Bark!  You’re doing great!”).  We made it just past the stop sign when Robbie wiped out – full-on crash into the sidewalk.  It was then that we discovered his shoes were on the wrong feet.  A quick switch of the shoes, and we were off.  We had just crossed the street when Robbie and I got tripped up on a branch in the middle of the sidewalk.  I managed to recover and not hit the ground.  Robbie didn’t fare quite as well.  He scraped up both hands, his lip, and possibly his belly.  But he carried on.

I gave Robbie the choice of running back home or running along the pond and back into the neighborhood.  He said, “We need to keep runnin’, Mom.  We’re really super fast runners.  We’re just runnin’ and runnin’.”  And we were.  He ran along the pond, up a major hill, around a circle, and back down the hill.  Eventually, we headed home.  We made it 1.4 miles before he asked to walk a little bit and 1.67 miles total.  Sure, I’d planned to run three.  But this was way better.

I put Robbie in bed tonight and waited patiently for him to go to sleep.  Eventually, the prospect of catching up on Dallas got the best of me.  I told Robbie that I was going to check the laundry and would be back to talk to him in a few minutes.  He promised me that he would stay in bed and go to sleep.  I figured I had ten minutes before he found us in the basement.

It took about fifteen.  I noticed movement by the steps and almost had to do a double-take.  There he was, peaking around the corner of the stairs.  And entirely covered in a beige blanket.  He stayed there for a few minutes, completely silent.  It was all Justin and I could do to maintain our composure.  Then, very slowly, the blanket boy started moving toward the family room, staying close to the wall and as out-of-sight as possible.  Eventually, he couldn’t control himself any longer and started laughing.

Perhaps better parents could have kept straight faces and gotten their children back to bed.  We could not.  Instead, Robbie hopped up on the couch next to me and discussed his plan.  Robbie figured that ghosts are invisible and can’t be seen.  Knowing that they wear white sheets, he found the next best thing – the blanket.  He figured that if he was hiding under the blanket, just like a ghost, it would be impossible for us to see him and know he was out of bed.  Makes sense to me…

Robbie has been clamoring for a booster seat for the past few weeks, with grandiose visions of what he wants.  First it was a shark booster seat.  Then a Buzz booster.  Today, Robbie told Justin he needed a Lightning McQueen booster seat from Target.  He is noting if not specific.

And what he got was something quite different, mostly because there weren’t a lot of options at Target.  Justin gave Robbie full reign on which two booster seats he would get – one for Justin’s car and one for mine.  That was more than I knew and walked through the door, nearly stumbling upon the ugliest booster seat I have ever seen.  It’s taken me three hours to define the color.  It can only be defined as Barney-esque.

When I got downstairs, Robbie started talking about my booster seat.  “Did you see it, Mom?  I got you a booster seat for your car.  I picked it out.  It’s pink for your car.”

And that’s when it hit me.  Robbie didn’t buy the booster seat he wanted.  He knew it was going in my car and wanted it to be something I would like.  Once again, he thought about someone else before himself.  All of a sudden, that hideous booster seat was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.  It is a beautiful reminder of how much my little boy loves me – more than sharks and Buzz and Lightning McQueen combined.

It’s reassuring, you know?  Every time I turn on the TV or the computer, there is bad news.  Kidnappings, car wrecks, hostage situations, school shootings.  And I can’t help but wonder what their parents think.  Or if they are surprised.  And I can only hope that my child will never be a part of anything terrible.  I pray that he spends his life continuing to think of others and making people smile.  That he will make the world a better place, just like he’s done for me.

Saturday night, Aunt Hilary bought Robbie a present – Spider-Man Underoos.  The first thing he asked for Sunday morning was his new Underoos, and he put them on telling me he didn’t wear underpants anymore – only Underooses like his dad.  Throughout the day, Robbie took every opportunity to show off his new Underoos, stripping down twice at my mom’s house while he was over there playing.

I figured that was pretty well the end of the Underoos and worked on getting Robbie ready for bed.  However, he was quick to inform me that he would not be wearing jammies anymore.  He proudly exclaimed, “I’m not wearing jammies anymore.  I’m sleeping in my Underooses and undershirt like Daddy.”

Just to clarify, and a little perplexed because it was cold and Robbie is firmly devoted to his jammies, I said, “So, let me get this straight.  You are not sleeping in jammies tonight?’

“No.”

“You are sleeping in your underwear and t-shirt?”

“No,” Robbie replied, becoming exasperated by my obvious stupidity.  “I’m sleeping in my UNDEROOSES and UNDERshirt.”

Robbie went on to explain to me that he wouldn’t be wearing a diaper because “I don’t pee in my Underoos.”  While I admire Robbie’s determination to stay dry at night, I didn’t trust it.  After he fell asleep, I put a diaper on under the coveted Underoos.  This morning, he came bounding down stairs, exclaiming, “Mom!  I didn’t pee in my Underoos!”

I looked at him, a little confused.  Finally, I said, “Robbie, you know you’re wearing a diaper, right?”

“Oh,” he responded, looking down.  “No.  I didn’t know that.”

Today was nothing like I expected.  When I found out today was a snow day, I planned to pick up the house, drop Robbie off at school after his two-hour delay, take the dog to get groomed, go to school to get organized, and see a movie by myself.  My plans were thwarted early on when, after dropping Barkley off to be groomed, I realized that school was canceled for Robbie.

We stopped to get coffee and a donut (for me) and a banana muffin (for Robbie) before heading over to my school.  Just yesterday, I told a colleague that I needed four uninterrupted hours to get my classroom organized.  I couldn’t waste a snow day not taking care of this.  When I told Robbie about our plans, I expected resistence.  Maybe even a little crying.  Instead, I heard, “I get to go to your school?  Will we see your friends?  I’m bigger and bigger and get to go to Mommy’s school!”

He was patient and wonderful for three hours.  Sure, he went “fishing” with my ball of twine, resulting in a web of string around all of the tables in my classroom.  And he made me a double dipper, something I acted excited to receive until I realized what it was: shredded Kleenex and gum wrappers in the half-full bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper we claimed from the vending machine with the five quarters, two dimes, and one nickel that were supposed to serve as his lunch money.  Robbie chased Milkshake (the class bunny) around the room and ran through the halls barefoot.  He helped me recycle papers, moved chairs across the room for me to stack them. and pushed heavy tables around to help me create a new seating arrangement.

His reward was Chik-fil-a — with a play space.  He played for an hour, stopping for brief gulps of juice and a hurried bite of chicken nugget.  At one point, he stopped while climbing to the top of the structure and looked out the little window, searching for me.  Our eyes met, and he lit up, holding his hand up with the “I love you” sign displayed.  I signed back, and he blew me a kiss and pretended to hug me from afar.  Then, with a big grin, he bolted up the next stair.  It stopped my world.  This little boy loves me enough to stop playing and tell me he loves me.  And I could have missed that if school had been in session.

We left the restaurant after an hour, heading to Target to buy a birthday present for a friend and a Valentine’s surprise for my favorite sister.  He spent much of the ride talking to himself (we had established earlier that he was just talking to himself, not to me).  I enjoyed just getting to listen to him.  He has a sweet voice, which I don’t always take the time to appreciate.  And then, in the midst of his babble, he whispered, “I’m having a really great day.”

We hadn’t done anything in particular.  In fact, the only really fun thing we’d done was the play place.  But then I thought about it.  He’d gotten to take his dog to get a bath and a hair cut.  He got to flirt with the ladies at The Daily Grind.  He went to a big kid school and talked to someone who knows his Nona.  He played on the computer and played with a bunny and met a new friend who was there with his father.  He succumbed to being tickled, howling with laughter.  He put quarters into a vending machine and got a drink out and pretended to fish.  He pushed and pulled heavy furniture around and ran barefoot through the halls.  He fed two turtles and got a lei and was able to get water out of one of those fancy water dispensers.  And then he went to lunch with a play place, where I did something I never do.  I let him play as long as he wanted — waiting to leave until he was actually finished with his fun, encouraged to go back and play a little more.

Our day continued to get better.  We surprised Aunt Hilary with candy and pencils and heart stickers.  Robbie got to offer candy to everyone in Hilary’s office.  He went to pick up his dog, who was thrilled to see him.  And Robbie got to help me make chocolate chip cookies.  It was a far  cry from everything I envisioned for today.  Perhaps I would have gotten more finished if Robbie had been in school (I found out tonight that closing school for the day was a tough call and almost didn’t happen).  But I wouldn’t have taken the time to really enjoy the person his is right now, the person who finds such joy in so many small things.  So, thank you, Tobie.  Thank you for giving me a day to fully appreciate the wonderful young man in my life.  I needed it more than I realized.

Eighteen months ago, I was so proud of myself.  I had lost 90 pounds and looked and felt fabulous.  I was never going back.  Except I did.  I went about 25 pounds the other way.  Twenty of them in the six months since we moved.  And it feels miserable.  Sure, there are reasons for it.  Stress.  Stress eating.  Minimal exercise.  Bronchitis.  Bad weather for running.  But, eventually, the reasons become excuses.  And, once again, I’m done with excuses.

Two weeks ago, I ran my second marathon.  It was a miserable experience.  I ran the first 14 miles and felt pretty good.  But then it got hot.  And I started to walk – which tightened up all my muscles, making it difficult to do anything other than walk.  Even the walking was excruciating.  But, I finished.  It took me 29 minutes longer to finish than my last one did – perhaps because it was 77 degrees.  Perhaps because I weighed 20 pounds more than I did last May.

So, even though I am proud of myself for finishing the marathon, I am incredibly disappointed in myself.  I made choices that led to a bad performance.  I didn’t train well – no running for six weeks because of bronchitis, skipping long runs because of bad weather and the holidays.  Eating when I knew I shouldn’t have.

But I’m done with it.  I’m done with my favorite clothes not fitting and feeling embarrassed by myself again.  I’m finished with eating food that only makes me feel terrible about myself.  And, perhaps most importantly, I am over not exercising properly and giving my body the opportunity to excel the way that I know it can.  So, I’m holding myself accountable.  At least thirty minutes a day for myself.  Yoga, running, walking.  Pushing myself toward the me I know I want to be and can be.  Are you?

This post will perhaps seem to be a complete contradiction to the one I just wrote…  We arrived at school on Tuesday morning for an emergency faculty meeting.  The time-stamp on the email was 12:48 a.m.  It had to be bad news.  And it was.  Gayle Gay, a much beloved educator at Crawford, had passed away the night before.  For five minutes, I’m not sure where I was – unable to fully process the news, I watched others around me.  Heads buried in hands, tears streaming down faces, confusion on the faces of the teachers walking in late.

Listening to the students as they received the news was even more difficult.  Kids who seemed so tough, like nothing could break them, doubled over at their desks, their bodies racked with sobs.  The others eerily silent – still processing, perhaps shocked by the reactions of their classmates.  This was even more difficult than hearing the news for the first time.  It was the second time some of them had confronted the death of someone close to them in four months.  And for a little while, we were all just people hurting together.

I’ve been gone for three days, but I hope a little of this has stuck with them.  How important it is for us to be kind to each other.  How petty things don’t matter in the scheme of things.  And how precious life is and how quickly it can be taken away.  I find myself struggling to remember my last conversation with Gayle.  I’m sure it was in the hallway, and I know she had a big smile on her face, even if we were complaining about something (or, more likely, someone).  Since I know I was wearing a dress the last time I saw her, I’m pretty confident she touched my shoulder, smiled, shook her head a little, and said, “Such a pretty dress.  You always have on a pretty dress.”

But I wish I’d known more.  I wish I’d stopped to talk more, to ask personal questions, to get to know Gayle outside the hallway.  She was one of my favorite people at work; she always put a smile on my face.  And I never stopped to talk for long.  Always somewhere to go, something to copy, someone to find.  So perhaps my lesson is just to slow down.  Take an extra 30 seconds.  Or five minutes.  In the end, won’t it have been worth it?

I know…  It’s part of the wedding vows, not the parenting vows.  But I think it applies.  After all, aren’t we supposed to love our children in sickness and in health?  But surely there’s an exception to this, where maybe we don’t have to like them very much?  Particularly if one parent is out of town and the remaining parent is also sick with the same virus and the child is just as sick and tired of you after three days together?  Because if that’s the case, I’m right on track.

As soon as I saw that Justin would be out of town for two full weeks in a row (home on the weekend between, thank God!), I knew that we were destined for illness.  It seems obvious, doesn’t it?  So, it came as no surprise to get a text from Justin Tuesday afternoon that Robbie had a fever of 102.5 degrees.  I headed out of school, knowing that I would be gone for Tuesday and Wednesday.  I never imagined Thursday, too.  Nor did I imagine that I would have the same virus, knocking me out for a day and a half as well.

Robbie and I only left the bedroom to get food yesterday.  And, since neither of us was eating, that was rare.  It was constant together time.  We went to sleep last night planning on going to school today.  We were both ready, each of us over our respective virus.  Then Robbie’s fever shot up to 101 this morning and I was still horribly nauseous.  We headed back to the doctor, since Robbie complained about his chest and throat hurting.  Another nose swab and throat culture gave us no definitive answers; we just had different versions of the same virus.

Home we came, prepared for an afternoon of movies and cuddling.  At least that’s what I was prepared for.  Robbie was prepared for disaster.  We made it through The Cat in the Hat, which Robbie watched in his chair while I napped fitfully on the couch.  Then, determined to be somewhat productive, I went to the bedroom to put away the laundry my sister had generously folded yesterday when she came to bathe Robbie and got sucked into our laundry pile.  It was very quiet, so I asked Robbie what he was doing.  His response left me struggling for words.

“Breaking your glasses, Mom.”

And he had.  Into four pieces.  He had also spilled the entire box of oyster crackers onto the floor and done some sort of dance on them.  It was all I could do to maintain my composure.  OK.  I didn’t maintain my composure.  I yelled.  I cried.  Robbie cried.  But my glasses were still broken.

The night continued to improve…  Robbie dropped an entire pizza face-down on the floor – I have no idea how that happened.  And, as we finally cuddled up in bed (we ARE going to school tomorrow), the dog jumped up with us.  And puked all over my newly cleaned duvet cover.  And did I mention that Justin is out of town until tomorrow?

Every now and then, Robbie’s insight makes me stop dead in my tracks.  Last night, as we were walking up the stairs, I said, “Robbie, I sure am glad I made you.” 

Without missing a beat, my three-year-old turned around, looked at me with wide eyes, and said, “You didn’t make me, Mom.  God did.  God made me.”

Stunned, there wasn’t much more I could say.  Even Justin, who was following my comment with, “Well, I helped make you, Rob.  You’re half mine,” was speechless.  Because Robbie’s right.  God did make him.  And I’m not sure how or why, but I sure am glad that when God made Robbie, he entrusted us to be his parents.

Later in the evening, after we had read a few stories and said our prayers, Robbie snuggled up close and got very quiet.  I thought he was almost asleep when I heard a very soft whispering coming from him.  I slowly moved my head to see his hands clasped together and to hear the final words of his prayer, “Thank you, God, for my mom, my dad, and my rocket ship.  Amen.”

There were no words.  I squeezed my child a little tighter and kissed the top of his head as tears welled up in my eyes.  There is nothing quite like the blindless devotion of a child to God to bring everything into perspective.  I know he hears about God in pre-school and Sunday school.  And I know he goes to chapel once a week and insists on being the one to say prayers at every meal.  But to see him pray when he doesn’t know anyone is watching or listening?  It is a beautiful reassurance to me that there is a God.

One of my favorite episodes of The Cosby Show was when Rudy’s goldfish dies.  The entire family dresses up for the funeral, and, as they are all gathered solemnly around the toilet, Rudy asks if she can go watch TV instead of attending the funeral she insisted they have for the fish.

Today we had our own version of this episode.  The events started last night when I did a double-take as I passed the fish tank if Robbie’s room.  It took a few minutes for me to realize what had happened.  But, after my eyes recovered from the bright orange of the water, I realized what had happened.  Robbie had fed his fish.  The entire canister.  Every last flake.  The tank looked like it had been hit by an epic snow storm.  Even the firetruck was up to its windshield in flakes.

Concerned about the welfare of the fish, I took the tank downstairs with me after Robbie went to bed.  The fish went into a glass on the counter with as little of the sludge as I could manage.  I painstakingly sorted through the gravel and decomposing fish flakes.  Unfortunately, we didn’t have any water treatment, so the fish had to spend the night in the glass.

As soon as we got home this afternoon, Robbie raced to the kitchen to check on his fish.  He was no more.  The sludge had claimed him.  So, we opted for a burial at sea.  Robbie and I headed to the bathroom, glass and fish in hand.  Robbie helped me pour the glass into the toilet.  He said a few words about what a good fish he had been and then looked to me.  I asked Robbie if he wanted to say a quick prayer, and he nodded his head and folded his hands.

“God is great; God is…”  Then it occurred to him that we weren’t eating.  He looked up a little confused and unsure of what to do.  We managed to finish the prayer together, and then it was time to flush.

We tried to do it together (the handle sticks a little).  Unfortunately, it took two tries to get the fish all the way down, which may have been a little traumatic for Robbie…  And me.  I loved that fish…