While enjoying a sunshiny day at a local Texas park last week, I made a tragic discovery. Like a train wreck, it both repulsed and attracted me.
We have a Peep down, people.
I repeat, PEEP DOWN.
Oh, the humanity.
The mushy, sticky, crunchy sweet goodness of this Peep will never be enjoyed by one of its many adoring fans. A moment of silence, please.
This post is dedicated, with love and gentle solace, to Megan, who may be the world’s greatest champion of Peeps and the first person I thought of when I made this tragic discovery. I know she will weep at this injustice.
The next time you see me here, I’ll be back where I left my heart years ago.
Heading back to live in Austin, my friends. With a huge grin plastered across my face.
I’m sure I’ll be tweeting all along the way there, so if you’re interested in coming along, follow me on Twitter!
I am so, so, so happy.
Did you know that RUNNING! is awesome? It is. RUNNING! is fun and exhilarating and it tones your body and makes you feel alive. RUNNING! makes you float on a layer of endorphins called Awesomeness Coated in Hell Yes every time you do it. You do a lot of RUNNING! when you’re training for a 5K.
So, what happens when you’ve started training for a 5K and then it gets ass-shattering cold outside, so you start going to the gym with an indoor track to continue your training?
Well, apparently, if you’re using my body, you get a sweet-ass case of shin splints in your left leg, but you keep running on it because you’re a bonafide dumbass. Then, when it starts hurting like the hurtiest hurty thing in Hurtville, you do some research and find out that shin splints are not uncommon in new runners, especially when using an indoor track that has stupid, shitty, short turns (yes, like the one you started using when it got cold because you’re a whiny pansy-ass). SO, YAY – CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE SHIN SPLINTS!
You employ R.I.C.E therapy like a good, little idiot person who should have done that right away instead of running on the injury, but has now seen the light. You rest, ice, compress, elevate. In fact, to also ‘medicate’ the severe disappointment caused by having to stop RUNNING! you take it to a whole notha level, and you throw down some R.A.I.A.C.A.E.A therapy. (All together now, A is for “apple” and “airplane” and “ALCOHOL”)
After a couple of weeks, EUREKA! your leg is healed. To make sure you don’t get too damn happy for too long, you run on it for a week, but then do some stupid exercises one day at home without shoes on after you’ve already run that day, and don’t stretch/cool down when you’re done because your child wakes up from a nap and he’s screaming like a banshee with a porcupine that’s been set on fire shoved up its anus, so you just bolt up the stairs like your life depends on it mid-stupid exercises. (Let’s be totally clear here, it was obviously the kid’s fault. Jerk.)
Later, you realize that you were mistaken before. The shin splint was definitely not the hurtiest hurty thing in Hurtville. It was clearly only a slighty painy pain that lived somewhere outside of Painstoria. THIS CALF STRAIN IN YOUR RIGHT LEG IS THE REAL HURTIEST HURTY THING IN HURTVILLE.
And it’s on vacation ALL UP IN YO BIZNASS.
So you limp around like you’ve been Kerriganed for over a week. (Again employing a massive dose of R.A.I.A.C.A.E.A therapy, because this is what professionals like you do. You? Are a master at physical therapy. And stuff that requires you to drink alcohol.)
Finally, oh finally, you are healed.
So then you go RUNNING! again because RUNNING! was making you feel so good and so happy and heralding all kinds of gold glitter and rainbows from your rectumular area oh so many weeks ago when you were doing it regularly.
And you know what? RUNNING! is still awesome.
But you are not. Because YOU LOST YO GROOVE while you were all up in some R.A.I.A.C.A.E.A Therapy at the Bar in Hurtville/Painstoria for weeks on end.
I’ve got some news for you. Now you have to work back up to the same level of endurance you had before, and oh hell yes, you will. Don’t you doubt that, because you’ve been there before, and you plan on kicking super ass and getting there again in short time. In fact, the bursting feeling in your chest can just GO HOME TO ITS MOMMA, because you are completing every damn interval of every damn train, pushing through the sucktastical feeling of weakness, and you will NOT give up.
You? WILL BE TRIUMPHANT ONCE MORE. Hell, you’re already well on your way as we speak!
However, during your return to triumph, while you’re doing your warmup mile one day, you do think that it would be awesome to do two sets of 50 jumping jacks at 1/4m and 3/4m, and you know what?
You could have been using all that time you spent sitting on your ass with your compressed, iced legs elevated while you sucked down booze and healed doing something you could have really benefited from.
SOME DAMN KEGELS.
For a very long time, this is a rule that Braden has respected. Hey, if Mommy says fingers in the nose is a “no-no” and there’s even a book backing her up, it must be true.
But now we have reached the Age of Contrary. We see evidence of this with classic conversations like, “Here’s your peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” “NO. Dat’s not peanut butter jelly sandwich, DAT’S PEANUT BUTTER JELLY.”
And who could not see the genius in “Sit down at the table now.” “NO, I HAVE TO SIT IN DIS CHAIR NOW.” (The chair at the table.)
And if it’s fun to say “NO” to things just so you can restate them in a different way, well, then it must also be delightful to do things that have been forbidden. It’s all just part of the same circle of fun, right? Of course it is!
Life without testing the boundaries is boring, my friends. And the boundary between fingers and boogers is just SCREAMING TO BE BROKEN.
I mean, just look at how much fun this little dingaling is clearly having!
And so it goes, the boy realized that perhaps even if the book and The Mommy say fingers in the nose is not so groovy a thing to do, it can, in theory, still be done. And so he tested this idea, and found that yes, it can be done, and in fact, he quite enjoys sticking his fingers in his nose.
Over and over again.
it kills me that he can make even booger picking cute
Though it is clearly quite a bother to request a tissue before nostril exploration has begun, apparently it is no problem at all to do the same thing once one’s finger has been befouled. He walks over to me with his finger stuck out in front of him, a fine specimen riding the peak of his pointer, and says, “Put my booger in a tissue.”
Such gifts he presents to me, and lo, they take my breath away. It is an honor, such an honor.
And hey, I guess I have some idea of where he gets the appreciation for sticking things in his nostrils.
At least he’s not sticking other things in his nose.
Oh the roads we have traveled. And oh, those we have yet to travel! They stretch out before me in my mind. They’re sometimes long and winding, but more often, lately, so straight and fast that I can see the endpoint like a sudden, bracing hug and it takes my breath away. That place on the horizon where the road blisses out is bursting with warm sun, calling me.
There is so much going on right now, a flurry of to dos and plans and please let this work outs, that I can’t even begin to tell you about it all. I want to tell you. Of course, I will. In just a little while. My thoughts are racing along so far and so fast, ahead of me on that straight-shot road, being drawn to the place where my heart lies in wait. When it all snaps together just right, I’ll calm down, take a deep breath, and let my fingers do the work of spilling the proverbial beans here.
For now, my feet are getting tangled under me as I dart this way and that in nervous anticipation and fervent getting readiness. It’s quite a dervish of a whirlwind that’s whipping me around currently.
Luckily, in the breaks between spinning and racing and running around with far too much to think about and much, too much, to do, Braden and I have private dance parties to the music of The Beatles in our living room. There is generally an abundance of giggling. (You can dance really stupidly when there’s no one but a 3 year old watching, and it doesn’t matter.) Often, there is falling down on the floor silliness to be had, as well. And sharing a moment or two of just being.
Life, contrary to what you may have heard, is good.
Thanks to Books from Birth and Dolly Parton, Braden gets a free book every month, which is all kinds of awesome. Recently, his new book was The House That Jack Built. I was pleased – that’s a cute story!
Then I read it to him at bedtime.
It screamed “COCK!” at us.
No, seriously. Look:
And really, I can’t read this to him a single freaking time without picturing a giant wang all up in Jack’s house.
And yes, I know that a “cock” is a rooster. I also know that “gay” means happy and a “fag” is a cigarette. And yet, I wouldn’t say that a happy farmer smoking a cigarette next to his rooster is a gay dude tokin’ a fag by his cock.
And you probably have a lovely mental image that illustrates exactly why.
So. Thanks for this book selection, Dolly.
(Who, incidentally, I can never think of without picturing… you know damn well what.)
And this would be one of the many reasons: he’s super in-tune with sounds of all kinds. He often recites things like stories from books and the words of songs, which I find terribly awesome. Somehow, however, his love for sounds themselves is even more intriguing and endearing to me. He picks up on sounds that I have learned to zone out. He doesn’t ignore any of them. He hears every creak, pop, ding, whirr, chirp, and squeak in the world around him.
Even before he could talk, he was an expert at mimicking the microwave, dish-washer, toaster, birds chirping, airplanes flying, and water running, just to name a few.
“Mommy, I hear sound!” flies off his lips with unbridled delight every day, still. I’m adding this to the “joys” category of parenting, and I’m once again incredibly glad that I always have my camera nearby. The days just seem to fly by, but I have these memories documented.
He looked for those letters among the rest and laid them out like that on the side of the tub.
Then he did this:
If it doesn’t sound familiar to you, here ya go: