An FYI

If your child ever bites into a Cascade Complete dishwasher packet, the following is a list of actions you may want to take:

1. Wipe blue and green gel from child's mouth and tongue.
2. Force child to drink a glass of water.
3. Wipe up all the water that just flooded your kitchen floor because you forgot to put a lid on the cup.
4. Give her more water, this time in a sippy cup.
5. Read the back of package to make sure it is ok to give child water.
6. Assure your other children that their sister's tongue will probably not remain blue and that no you do not need them to call 911. Or daddy. Or Aunt Missy. Or Grandma.
7. Fret for 10 minutes about whether or not to call poison control.
8. Call poison control and get confirmation that the packets are not toxic but may induce vomitting.
9. Awesome.
10. Wonder how much your third child will age you in the next six months.

Bye Bye Baby

It's this girl's last day as a one year old and I just don't know if my heart can take it. Also, I think it means I will have to stop referring to her as "the baby," as in, "Can someone go check on the baby?" or "Shhh! The baby is sleeping!"

If I could freeze time right now, I would. The girls are all at such a fun age and I have to say that I am loving Amelia's new found independence and spunkiness. That's the thing with third kids--you've already been through the whole toddler scene twice before and know that is a just a phase. So when find your little one sitting naked on your bathroom floor painting her toenails, it's more funny than infuriating. Or when she starts screaming because she can't keep her six year old sister's shoes on, you know it's just because she's frustrated. When she yells "TOP IT!" to you or her sisters, you have to keep bite your lip to keep from laughing because it's just funny.

Side note: what's not so funny is when your baby--excuse me, toddler--tells you she just pooped and needs a new "biaper". OK, maybe it's a little funny. And possibly a sign that you should invest in a potty seat.

Happy last day of babyhood, Amelia! Could you please try to grow up a little slower?

Arden's Prayer

Dear God,
Thank you for everything in the whole wide world.
I like my family.
I hope you're having fun.
I love Jesus.
Amen.

In Case You Were Wondering...

...yes, I ran the marathon. And no, I didn't win. But I didn't die either, which, given the extreme heat on race day and my lack of training, I consider a win. Here's a little glimpse into what the experience was like.

“Only 24.7 more to go—it’s all down-hill from here!”
Miles 1-5: Feeling great, running great, looking great (what? my fuel belt was hot). Mandy (my running partner) needs a potty break—decides McDonald’s is a better choice than the port-a-potties. Take a leisurely stroll through the first aid station while she goes. Consume some Chomps and Gatorade. Continue running. Laughing and talking—oh, this is so easy. Am no longer worried about IT band or the fact that my training essentially ended at 14 miles. I am obviously a natural—maybe I'm part Kenyan?

“You are all crazy”
Miles 6-10: Still feeling good. Not too hot yet. Am vaguely aware of the tightening of my right IT band. Wait. It’s my left one that’s been flaring up for the last four weeks. Why is my right one so tight? Commence stretching. Mimic Mandy’s street light stretch (grab pole with both hands, plant feet on ground, lean back and lower booty towards ground). Try to ignore the guy who tells me not to pull the street light out of the ground. Need to potty. Mandy suggests going behind a fence. Explain that my southern upbringing makes it physically impossible for me to urinate in public. Really. Physically impossible. It’s not like I haven’t tried before. Sheesh. Will wait a little longer. More Gatorade. More water. More Chomps.

“Hey John, Braden and Dylan said it’s OK if you crap your pants”
Miles 11-13: Must pee. Veer off to a port-a-potty and lock myself inside. Make mistake of looking into potty. Instantly curse my southern upbringing and vow to try harder to urinate in public next time. More water, Gatorade and Chomps. Realize that the professionals are already done with their race and I haven’t hit the halfway point yet. Am not Kenyan, after all. Am hot. Run through some water hoses. Dump Gatorade in my shoe. Slip on the wet pavement. Am getting even hotter.

“Suck it Up”
Miles 14-20: Tell Mandy to go on without me. Turn on my ipod. Maybe Justin Beiber will motivate me to run. No. Maybe Led Zepplin. Nope. Maybe Pearl Jam. Uh-uh. Ice Ice Baby? Not even close. This is a very dark moment. Turn ipod off. Run through more hoses. Soak hat with water. WHAT IS UP WITH THIS WEATHER?! Double up on the Chomps. More is always better. Convince myself that after mile 17 I only have 6 more miles to go. Wonder if my math and statistics degrees should be revoked.

“Embrace the Suck”
Miles 21-25: Glance around and notice that everyone is walking. Begin to regret writing my name on my bib. Do not want to be encouraged. I am NOT almost there. Still have a long freaking way to go. Start to hate Chomps, Gatorade, water, water hoses, and everyone who didn’t try and stop me from running a marathon. Have an overwhelming desire to sit down and quit. Walk by an event photographer and glare at him as his camera captures me walking.

“You’re a rock star! Please don’t die!”
The last mile: Oooh, look! A jumbo-tron! That must be the finish line! Eyes fill with tears. I did it! Wait. That’s not the finish. What kind of sick joke is that? That’s just mean. Final little hill to the finish. IT flares and knee does not want to bend. AM NOT WALKING INTO FINISH LINE. Begin Lamaze breathing and am glad that those child birth classes finally got put to good use. Cross finish line. Want to lay down and die. Spot Jason just in time and am so happy. Eat some carbs and pose for a finisher's picture. Am slightly delirious but so glad I did it. Even if I did come in 28,354th place.

Round One Goes to the Monkey Bars

About two weeks ago, Claire fell off the monkey bars in our backyard.

We gave her an ice pack and a dose of motrin. Then we went out to eat.

About a week after the fall, Claire mentioned that her arm "kind of" hurt when she went to gymnastics a few days before. I noticed that she couldn't open the clasp on her backpack and that she wasn't able to put any weight on her right arm.

I took her to the doctor. She ordered x-rays. The x-ray technician asked me if the doctor wanted me to wait at the lab or go back to the clinic while they read the x-rays. I told him the doctor said we should go home and she would call me if the bone was broken.

The tech said I might want to just wait there.

The next day, I took Claire to an orthopaedic surgeon. More x-rays. Talk of going to the OR. Verification that the bone was 80% broken through and was slightly displaced. Validation that, yes, it's completely common for a broken bone to go undiagnosed for a week or more. I suddenly felt nauseous as I pictured her doing cartwheels and swinging from the uneven bars just days before.

I kept saying, "I can't believe your arm is broken."

Claire kept asking, "Why do you keep saying that?"

Finally, a hot pink cast. The doctor pressed hard on Claire's arm as he casted her, trying to get the bone to line up as much as possible. Claire didn't even flinch while I practically broke a sweat just watching. More x-rays were ordered for later this week, to make sure the bone hasn't shifted anymore. If it has...possible surgery. Let's all pray it hasn't.

In the meantime, Claire is enjoying the celebrity that comes with being the only kid at school with a cast. And as for the monkey bars, let's just say their time with us is limited.

Marathon-arella

Once upon a time, there was a girl* who had a blog. One day, the girl and her good friend, B**, decided to run a marathon. The two friends decided to register for the race right away so they wouldn't change their minds. They even went so far as to post it on Facebook, which is the modern day equivalent of signing your name to a contract in blood.

The girl started training for the race in March, a mere two weeks after surgery to remove an internal organ or two***. She faithfully followed her "Novice Level Marathon Training Plan" all through what would turn out to be one of the hottest summers in recent years****.

Somewhere along the way, the girl's blog became neglected*****. Many, many events went unrecorded. Events that were definitely blog worthy. Events like: that time the girls fell off a horse and Claire got some teeth knocked out and her face all beaten up, and the time Arden may or may not have had viral meningitis but either way, ended up in the ER. And then there was a trip to Disneyworld, the end of Kindergarten, the end of preschool, the arrival of a new family member (a dog named Hootie) and an impromptu trip to the beach.

Sometimes, while the girl was running, she would compose blog entries in her head. This foolishly led her to believe that she was actually updating her blog, because HELLO? she totally wrote about that already. But then she would glance to her neglected blog and realize that she hadn't, in fact, updated it. She would briefly consider doing so, but would ultimately decide against. The running, man. It was so consuming.

Training was going just fine until one day, the girl felt a painful twinge in her knee during a long run. She instantly knew what it was. The dreaded IT Band******. Not wanting to admit it, she continued running until she couldn't take it anymore and ended up walking nearly six miles back to her car. The long, cold walk allowed her plenty of time to think about her neglected blog. She vowed then and there to sit down and update her blog*******.

Ultimately, the girl would recover enough to limp through a few runs and revise her marathon goal from a 4:30 finish to a 5:00 finish to a 6:00 finish*********. Although she was a little down about her injury, she realized that easing off the training would allow her ample time for other activities, including blogging.

And she blogged happily ever after.


*The girl realizes that at some point, she will have to stop referring to herself as a "girl". That time has not yet come.

**The girl would like to hold B, and her fun birthday weekend at Big Cedar Lodge, responsible for making her commit to running a marathon.

***The girl failed to mention her surgery on her blog because it contained words such as "ovary" and "fallopian tubes".

****Of course it was the hottest summer in recent years.

*****The girl would like to note that, while the blog may have been neglected, her children were not.

******In this story, the IT Band will play the part of the wicked stepmother.

*******She, of course, didn't update her blog but instead sought means to heal her injured knee. This included taking copious amounts of anti-immflamatories, lots of stretching, and a visit to a massage therapist who will from here on be referred to as "Patty Pain".
*********The girl now just hopes to finish the race before the streets open back up.

I Think This Means I Should Cook More

As we were leaving the park yesterday afternoon, Claire asked me if we could order some Japanese food for dinner. She really meant Chinese food but I didn't bother to correct her because that would have led to a whole other conversation about the differences between the two cuisines, and frankly, after an hour and a half of chasing my wild one year old up and down the stairs to the slide, I wasn't up for that discussion. Instead, I just told her no, that we had eaten out the night before and we were going to eat at home.

"Oh man," she whined. "I don't want a sandwich."