I finished my first half marathon according to my Garmin in 2:22. The official time was 2:24, but that time includes all the zigzagging I had to do around 30,000 other runners. By the time I crossed the finish line, I’d run almost 13.6 miles. So 2:22 it is!

The race was…hard. It was way harder than I expected it to be. Having trained and run so many miles (236.4 miles, but who’s counting?), I ASSumed that the race would be a breeze, it would be that “victory lap” that so many people call their races. WELL. I hadn’t planned for it to be so HOT, HILLY, and SUNNY. I mean, I love sunshine, but I don’t love sunshine when it’s beating down on you while running 13.1 miles, making me feel like a turkey roasting in the oven on Thanksgiving morning. And the hills, geez louise, the hills. Knoxville is super hilly, but there are downhill rewards. Nashville was one uphill after another with very few downhills. My quads are still recovering.

But despite HOT, HILLY, and SUNNY it was the best thing I’ve ever done. (Except for having Carson and Ella, obviously.) I did have to walk a lot between miles 11 and 13, but I’m still really, really proud of myself. The second it was over, I was already thinking about the next time, even though I could barely walk and my left toes were covered in blisters thanks to my wet socks.

I did cry when I crossed the finish line, but when I crossed, none of my girls were with me. I cried for having finished and I cried for crossing the finish line without them, but instead with a bunch of stinky, sweaty random people that I didn’t know.

Seriously, are we not cute? You’d cried, too, if you didn’t get to cross the finish line with them.

We followed the race with champagne, chips, salsa, margaritas, guacamole, tacos, shopping, ice, beer, wine, and pizza. And we made plans for our next race together.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

I’ve tried to write before how much this whole running thing means to me, but I don’t have the words. Saying I’m proud of myself doesn’t really convey what I mean. Saying that I’ve worked hard doesn’t come close to describing what “work” and “hard” mean. Aside from the two moments that I gave birth, there is nothing that comes close to the feeling of accomplishment that I feel for having come this far.

In less than 24 hours it will all be over and I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself. I’m going to miss getting up at 6 am on a Saturday morning to run with my girls. I’m going to miss our long talks and the laughing and the breakfast afterwards.

I guess I better start planning for my next race.

::

I wrote some running tips for people who want to get started running over at my Babble blog, Southern By Proxy. Totally unrelated, I also wrote about how much I hate the school car line. Feel free to commiserate. It’s therapeutic.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

Since I don’t like to announce to potential stalkers that I’m a prime target and I couldn’t seem to pull thoughts together that didn’t have to do with Tate’s absence, I didn’t say anything at all.

Anyway, he’s home safe and sound and very cultured and filled with weinerschnitzel and apple streudel. I’m in no way jealous that he got to spend two weeks in Europe traveling to Vienna and through London.  Nope. Not jealous at all. Being home alone with the kids, filled with frozen pizza and oreos, was just dandy.

I feel like a lot has happened lately.

Ella started dance class. It is just about the cutest thing I ever saw. I’m over the moon that she chose dance over t-ball this year. I’m all for girls playing t-ball, but I just wanted to see her twirl and dance and do something girly.

My birthday just so happened to fall during Tate’s trip (alone, to Europe), but it really was a great day. Really. The kids surprised me with a new running tank. Ella took me out for sushi. Tate planned ahead (I KNOW!!) and had flowers sent to me. My girlfriends took me out for Mexican food and margaritas after running class. It was one of the best birthdays ever.

My brother and his wife had a baby! Well, actually his wife had the baby. Just want to be clear about that. I’m an aunt! She’s precious and perfect and I can’t wait to meet her.

During the month of March, I ran 93.5 miles.  I can’t even believe it.  It probably explains how I was able to survive two weeks as a suddenly single parent. Running is amazing therapy.

This past weekend, I ran in the Knoxville Marathon as part of a relay team.  I ran the 7.9 mile leg of the race and other than being hilly, hot, and semi-ugly scenery, it was a blast. Tate and the kids came out and cheered me on around mile 3.5, which meant a lot to me. In less than one month, I’ll be running the Country Music Half-Marathon in Nashville.  Woo!

What’s new with you?

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

There was a segment on CBS Sunday Morning recently that featured a museum dedicated to the history and promotion of cleaning. It is called The Museum of Clean. Clever name, right?!? It’s in Pocatello, ID just in case you’re interested in visiting. I’m telling you about this because of the man who was featured on this segment, Don Aslett, spent his entire life savings to build The Museum of Clean.  He must really like cleaning. Mr. Aslett said something that I’ve been thinking a lot about.

This is what he said, “How you clean will be how you live. That’s just the way it is.”

Hmm.

The truth is, I’m just not a very good housekeeper. My home is not filthy, I just wouldn’t recommend eating dinner off my floors. The toilets are as clean as toilets can be, I change the sheets on the beds…sometimes, the microwave is clean, and we don’t have roaches or any other bug problem for that matter.  For me, there are far more important things in life than having dust-free bookshelves and perfectly vacuumed “vees” in my carpet-like watching Mad Men on Netflix for six hours straight or taking the kids and a picnic lunch to the park on beautiful days.

Cleaning isn’t something that I overly stress with my kids, either. I’m more concerned about them playing and using their imaginations as much as possible, doing well in school, and learning to be kind to others than I am with their ability to make their beds so perfectly that a quarter bounces. We do have simple rules about putting their dirty clothes in the hamper and clearing their plates from the table after meal time. They are expected to help out around the house and not be complete slobs, but unmade beds and their messy playroom do not bother me. This is why doors were invented! Messy bedroom?  Shut the door and voila! Instantly cleaned!

There are times, though, when the clutter and toys get to be too much.  Piles, piles everywhere!! I’ll get a sudden urge that the house must be cleaned RIGHT AT THIS VERY MOMENT. This is usually right after I’ve stubbed my toe on a monster truck or misplaced one flip flop, only to find it and twenty other missing items under the couch.

When these bursts of cleaning energy hit, I get the kids involved as much as possible in the endeavor so that when they are grown up and married, their spouses won’t think that I never taught them about cleaning. That, and the fact that the vast majority of messes in the house were created by them. We do have a rule-more of a guideline, really- that in our house, as a family, it doesn’t matter WHO made the mess, but EVERYONE will help to clean up.

Seeing the entire playroom floor covered with toys and saying, “Clean it all!  Clean it all, right now!,” typically results in a two-way meltdown between Carson and Ella. Instead, I’ll tell Carson to find all the monster trucks and put them back in their bin and I’ll tell Ella to find all the dress-up costumes and put them away. Giving the kids specific instructions helps make cleaning a little less horrible.

I also set a timer for 30 minutes and tell them that all the cleaning has to be finished before it rings. Not only do I get a hearty chuckle from watching the kids run around cleaning while trying to beat the clock,  it gives us an actual ending time so that we won’t feel like we spent HOURS cleaning.

I haven’t always been this laid back about cleaning, but the older I get, the further down my priority list cleaning falls. There’s just SO much more to life than a perfectly cleaned house.

So thank you Mr. Aslett of The Museum of Clean. You are exactly right.  How I clean is exactly how I live: If it’s important, it deserves my attention.

This post is sponsored by Hallmark for their Life is a Special Occasion campaign. While Hallmark is compensating me for participation in this campaign, all opinions expressed are my own. Have I mentioned how honored I am to be a part of this campaign?  THIS is way better than cleaning a toilet, that’s for sure!

Sign up here for Hallmark’s e-newsletter to get special offers and discounts!

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

Actually, that’s not really true, Silly! I think Carson is a bit too young and I’m a lot too old for a spring break filled with debauchery, don’t you think?

It has made me think back to my one and only wild spring break trip, way back in the 90?s. For all you youngsters out there, that’s what you might call the “olden days.” It just happened to be my 21st birthday and I may or may not have had a little fun.

Please enjoy this walk down memory lane to spring break 1996, as a single footloose and fancy free gal, compared and contrasted with spring break 2012, as a 36-year-old married mother of two.

Click on over to Southern By Proxy to read more (and see pictures of me bonging a beer in 1996!).

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

Before leaving for Nashville, I tried to get the house in order for my in-laws arrival.  The toilets were clean(ish) and the guest bedroom sheets were freshly laundered.  I even mostly cleaned the kitchen, with one exception.

I did not clean the microwave. I did not clean the microwave because I’m on a microwave cleaning strike and have been on strike for about three months.  And I’m on a microwave cleaning strike because SOMEONE in my house refuses to cover their food with a paper towel, thus making a big mess every time they reheat food.  That same SOMEONE then never cleans up after him (or her) (but not really her) self and apparently doesn’t care about the glop and gloop inside the microwave.

Well this someone RIGHT HERE (that’s me, okay?) I do care about the glop and gloop in the microwave, but I’m so tired of cleaning up after SOMEONE else’s messes. I am not a maid!

*deep breath*

We’ve been at a bit of standoff, one that I was SO going to win. Which is why, when I left, the microwave was not exactly clean.

Of course, I failed to mention my microwave cleaning strike to my mother-in-law because, really?  It’s pretty childish. I admit it, OKAY?! But childish as it may be, it made me feel like, “HA!  See that dirty microwave, SOMEONE in my house?  YEAH! Well, you’re just going to have to live with it!!”

When I came home, I discovered that the microwave had been cleaned.  By my mother-in-law.

Sure, I’m happy to have a clean microwave, but man.  All those months of work for nothing.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

Here’s just a brief glimpse of the evolution of my social behaviors at Blissdom ’12.

Wednesday night: Arrive at the Opryland Hotel and panic when I see people I know, sure they won’t know me.  They do.  Hug awkwardly, followed up with nervous conversation.
Decide to hide in my hotel room until my conference wingman arrives.
Realize I’m hungry. Check Twitter and see if anyone I know is tweeting that they are going out to dinner.  Phew!  See Rachel‘s tweet and spend ten minutes giving myself a pep talk to walk out of the hotel room.
Spend a lovely dinner with several bloggers and even make conversation fairly easily with several people I had never met before.
Feel puffed up like a peacock for actually talking! To other people!
Go to bed promising myself that I’m going to be a new, chatty, super friendly version of myself on Thursday.

Thursday: Say hello to old friends, hug, squee.
Go to a meet-up for new conference attendees.  Feel armpits become increasingly sweaty. Force myself to say hello and be friendly to three strangers.
Feel paralyzed with social anxiety after that three stranger exertion and decide to go back to my room.
Go to a cocktail party where I feel like a dud at making conversation.
Search the party frantically for people I know, while feeling annoyed with myself for not branching out.
Go to bed promising myself that I’m going to be a new, chatty, super friendly version of myself on Friday.

Friday: See more old friends, hug, and squee.
Play the role of community leader during several photography sessions.  Smile and make small talk with new people.  Think to myself, “see?  This isn’t so hard!”
Go to lunch and completely fail to introduce myself to most of the people at my table.  Think to myself that NOW I’m going to introduce myself.  No, NOW.  Okay, for real-NOW.  Get up and leave without introducing myself.
Kick myself on the way back to my room.
Go to the Hallmark bloggers get together and talk to Rachel and think to myself, “Why can’t I talk to people easily like Rachel does!?!”
Head out for the Girl’s Night Out festivities and drink a few alcoholic beverages.
Feel a bit (okay, A LOT) of liquid courage.
Become incredibly friendly, talk easily with strangers, and even introduce myself to blog crushes.
Go to bed promising myself that I’m going to be a new, chatty, super friendly version of myself on Saturday, minus the liquid courage.

Saturday: EXHAUSTION sets in.  Unable to make conversation with anyone.
Awkwardly smile and stand around most of the day, completely unable to spend the energy it would take to put a sentence together.
Go to the Girl’s Night In events and watch as people dance and sing Karaoke and think to myself, “Damn, I’m missing out. LIKE I ALWAYS DO.”
Go to bed promising myself that I’m going to be a new, chatty, super friendly version of myself NEXT year at Blissdom.

So in conclusion, if we met anytime other than Friday night-oh, say-between 9:30 pm and 2 am, then, “Hi!!  It’s really great to meet you!  What’s your blog about?  Where are you from?  Those shoes?  Are amazing!  Did you hear Rascal Flatts is coming Friday night?  Won’t that be fun?! Are you having a good time?  Blissdom is really great, isn’t it?!  Yeah, it’s been great getting to know you!”

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

My kids went to school today with store bought SpongeBob Valentines and EVERYONE SURVIVED.

You’re welcome.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

I don’t know how many times I’ve read Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. Fifty times?  A hundred?  As dysfunctional and messed up as those women in the story were, I have always read with envy, about the lifelong friendship between Vivi, Teensy, Necie, and Caro.  They share an intimacy that can only be found between people with a long history. I mean, they even have nicknames for one another.

I don’t have any friends like that.  Sure, I have lots of wonderful friends, but none that I can claim a lifelong bond, filled with childhood stories, teenage angst, first phone calls to announce new babies.  And I wish someone had given me a nickname, silly as that sounds.

We moved from one state to another when I was a child, and this trend continued as an adult.  (Five moves in nine years, but who’s counting! Certainly not me!) I never really had the chance to create history with friends and I’ve found it so hard to maintain close relationships with those that live hours away in other states.

Thanks to Facebook, I still keep in touch with many of those friends I’ve made along the way.  There’s always a burst of excitement and an exchange of chatty messages when you first reconnect, but then once you’ve exchanged years of marriage, number of kids, current city, and work situation, these friends just become another part of my newsfeed.

With my current set of friends, most of our interactions are through social media and text messages.  We get together when we can, time carved between one son’s soccer practice and another’s husband’s work schedule.  I don’t think I’ve ever been the one to initiate one of these get togethers, usually I just come along for the ride. My friends are basically my social secretaries, setting up our adult playdates.

Blooming Expressions Vase, courtesy of Hallmark

I’m not the best at reciprocating. I function under the assumption that my friends are telepathic and magically know how often I think about them-usually hours too late. I’m always forgetting birthdays, mammograms, and grandma’s surgery.  I text when I should pick up the phone and call.

I’m much better at the face to face friendship, when my girlfriends are sitting right there in front of me.  Need someone to listen or laugh at the ridiculous morning you just spent wrestling your two year old into her car seat?  I’m totally your girl.  Need someone to remember to call you and encourage you?  I WISH I was that girl.  It’s those behind the scenes friendship duties where I fail too often.

Life gets in the way. Responsibilities of motherhood and marriage, work commitments, and laundry get in the way of me making a real effort to be the kind of friend that I wish I was. All those things?  They are petty excuses. It’s no wonder that I crave a deeper intimacy with my friends. I know I need to do better and nurture these friendships for them to grow and prosper.

I made that resolution this year-well, I made the same resolution the year before, too, if I’m being totally honest-to call and initiate more with my friends.  There’s a million and one things I could do to be the kind of friend I want to be.  Thoughtful gifts and cards, phone calls, lunch dates…I just have to DO those things.

Maybe one day I’ll end up with a cool nickname after all.

::

All this talk about friendship is brought to you courtesy of Hallmark for their Life is a Special Occasion campaign.  While Hallmark is compensating me for participation in this campaign, all opinions expressed are my own. They sent me the Blooming Expressions vase that I gave to a a very good friend of mine-who I actually called and invited to lunch. I KNOW! 

You can sign up for Hallmark’s e-newsletter to get special offers and discounts.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

Tate and I had a date set up for last Friday night, so despite feeling like crud-o-la, we packed the kids off to the trusty Parent’s Night Out program at one of the local churches.  This was the first time we’d been able to do this since August, Carson was actually sent off with the big, elementary age kids for the first time ever and Ella stayed with the other preschoolers.  The church makes you take a card with your child’s information on it and it must be used to get your child back.  No card-no kid.  I guess they send those to the dungeon at the church if the parents don’t have their card at the end of the night. I don’t want to find out!

The older kids only get signed in, no card was given when Carson was dropped off, which made Tate very nervous.  I’m protective of the kids, sure, but Tate is even more protective and he didn’t feel at all comfortable with the way it didn’t seem as secure for the older kids.  I brushed it off and assured him that he was being a little anal and to relax because it DATE NIGHT WOO HOO! (Cough, snort, where’s my cold medicine?!?!)

We ate at one of those Brazilian restaurants where the men come by with hunks of meat that they carve off for you.  Our date included three other couples- there was lots of laughing and wine sipping and general merriment.  It’s all fun and games until the bill shows up, amirite?!  HOLY $126 DINNER.  I mean, it was fun to hang out with friends and eat a lot of carved meat, but it wasn’t $126 fun.  This part of the post has nothing to do with anything-really it’s just a public service announcement:  BEWARE OF BILLS AT BRAZILIAN STEAKHOUSES.

You’re welcome!

So if you’re one of those sleuth types, you may have already realized that when we went to pick up the kids, we learned that the night didn’t go so well for Carson.  Somehow, not too long before we came to pick him up, Carson got separated from his class as they were leaving the movie room. He says that he went straight back to his classroom, but nobody was there.  Somehow he managed to make it all the way upstairs, where a volunteer eventually found him sobbing.

I have no idea what the actual timeline of events really is, I have no idea if his teacher ever even knew he was missing.  I’m confused how a child could get separated from his class and manage to make it past where I would have assumed adults would have been monitoring doors and up a set of stairs before he was found.  I don’t want to be alarmist or make a mountain out of a molehill, but you know-when you trust people to watch your child-and that is basically their SOLE responsibility, it’s a bit disconcerting that something like this could happen.

I hardly slept that night, waffling between being utterly FURIOUS and grateful that he was smart enough not to go outside or get lost in the church. (It’s one of those mega churches with a school attached, so he could have easily gotten lost in the building.)

I should have called the director of the Parent’s Night Out Program, but I was afraid that I’d cry and sound either like a blubbering mom or a maniac.  I did email the director, though, so that she’ll at least be aware that they LOST MY CHILD last Friday.  Obviously they need to put into place a better system for keeping track of kids.

Unrelated to any of this, my cold is almost gone!  So that’s good, right?

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.