Feast After Famine

Josephine skipped around the house yesterday singing a ditty she learned in preschool. Trouble was, she couldn't remember anything but the refrain.

"Joy, joy, everywhere," she sang. 

And she was right. Robins flit about the front yard. The sun warmed the ground, our bodies too. Flowers bloomed. 

Look here.  

And here.  

Joy, joy, everywhere. 

I signed up for a half marathon a few months ago, back when I fell in love with running and thought it was my new BFF. 

Back-to-back blizzards, debilitating anxiety and a surprising bout of ugly depression sidelined the daily runs for a spell. 

But I put the jogging shoes back on my feet this past weekend and officially started the three-month training regimen. 

Turns out: I hate running just as much as I thought I did lo those many years ago. 

My passionate affair with pounding asphalt seems to have been a brief flirtation, at best. I thought I was running down the noise of the day, the chaos of the house and four kids. Now that perspective is on my side, I'm fairly certain I was trying to escape the death grip of unfamiliar panic attacks. 

In the interim, I started seeing an acupuncturist and therapist, started medicine for the menopause and started a cocktail of natural supplements. One or all of those quieted the anxiety and, also, rubbed the luster from the running.

The snow mostly melted by Saturday. The weather warmed, the sun shined and the roads filled with weekend warriors on bike and on foot. I was one of them. And I was miserable. Breathless by the first stop sign. Heave ho-ing by the second. Ready to rip my shirt off and head home by the third. 

"What did I get myself into?" I sputtered. 

I pushed myself to the half-way mark. Then willed myself home. 

It was not a pretty or auspicious start to the countdown to race day. 

"It's just one run," a friend counseled. "The next one will be much better."

Only it wasn't. In fact, it felt worse. I bargained with myself the entire 2.6 miles. Make it to the next street and then you can stop, I said. When I got there, I'd tell myself the same thing and do you know? I made it the whole way without stopping, then burst into the house barely able to breathe and so thoroughly disgusted with my shabby performance that I didn't stop bitching about it for 15 minutes. 

I'm not quitting the race, though. I can't. I've been cursed since birth with stubbornness and pride and I'll crawl into the stadium in Annapolis before I admit defeat.

My father used to tell us on relentless, hard climbs to just put one foot in front of the other. It's something he learned in mountain school. Or maybe Army training. Anyway, it's an apt directive for life...  as well as this tedious, ridiculous adventure I've embarked on. 

Hello, Mr. Lincoln.

Nice to meet you, Mr. Einstein.

It's funny that I mentioned Tavi Gevinson the other day, the 13-year-old fashion genius from Chicago who has a blog following of millions and jets about the globe covering haute couture. 

Seems we have a budding fashion designer in our own house. 

Esme dove into the new stash of construction paper her grandmother brought and, while I made dinner, she made her own paper duds. With royal accessories. 

It left a royal mess.

Check out the details on the shoes. 

She told me they were hard to walk in. I told her high fashion can be painful...

Remember that essay "All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten?" The one by Robert Fulghum that included such gems as: "Say sorry when you hurt somebody," "Don't hit people" and "Flush?"

Don't you wish more people in public toilets would remember that last one?

I started thinking about the piece yesterday when I realized Esme is quickly learning another crucial life lesson in kindergarten: people are complicated, and nothing is really black and white so much as shades of grey.

In case you missed it, she confided to me the other night that an older girl on the bus torments her by making her do things she doesn't want to do. Namely, math problems. On the other hand, the girl (I'm calling her Susie), also lavishes Esme with treats and trinkets. 

So, is Susie a bully or a buddy? For Esme, she's a bit of both. But yesterday, she was definitely more angel than antagonist. 

Some background: Esme and her classmates get out early on "Wacky Wednesdays." Back in September, when I was still getting used to the schedule, I completely forgot the early dismissal and didn't make it to the bus stop one day to pick up Esme. 

Luckily, our neighbor up the street walked Esme home. When the neighbor knocked on the door, I was slack-jawed and stupid. "Wait. What?!" And the girl was all like, "Duh!"  

Schooled by a sixth-grader. It feels as bad as it sounds. I vowed never to forget again. 

And I didn't. Until yesterday. 

But dammit, the school confused me. See, Wacky Wednesdays were suspended during part of February to make up for the snow days. This month, though, they're back on. 

Please tell me you're confused too. 

I was engrossed in some bit of reading yesterday afternoon when I heard an unfamiliar voice on the porch. A kid's voice. Followed by a knock. I didn't answer immediately because, in truth, I was trying to ignore the person. I thought the Jehovah's Witnesses had returned to bug me. When they knocked on the door an hour earlier, right after I put the youngest three down for nap, they made the dog bark which made Tobias cry which pissed me right the H-E -double hockey sticks off. 

So, I thought they were back....

Then I realized the kid was doing an awful lot of talking.  "Do you know if there's a key under the mat?" she said. "You have a nice house."

At the same time, I recognized the sound of the bus. 

OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!

I opened the door and saw Susie -- with her arm around Esme. She walked Esme to the door because our neighbor stayed after school for drama practice.

I thanked Susie profusely before she ran off, bounding back to the bus (which was idling at the corner). God bless the bus driver too who was crossing the street at the time to make sure Esme and Susie were Ok... and that I was home. 

I like to call myself "Mother Moron."

Geesh.

I bought a pot of Gerber daisies for the bus driver and wrote a short thank-you note that I'm going to give her at pick up. Which is at 3:27 precisely, thank you very much.

As for Susie, we'll see what shade she was today.