Tonight I watched a teenage girl get on the bus at Disney with her parents, nose buried in her cell phone, texting at a furious rate. Her parents looked exasperated and a little sad. They were at Disney after all and were probably hoping that their time here would be spent laughing, sharing and connecting like families are meant to on vacation.
I looked down at my two exhausted girls who were leaning against me. One was looking up at me talking in her typical mile a minute manner, relating back to me every single thing we had seen and done through the day. The other traced pictures on my hand with her finger. Both girls were totally present with me. They had no one else to share their thoughts with. No one to text with. No Facebook status to update. I realize in this moment that I have very little time left with them before these intrusions start to take hold in their lives.
I slip my phone back into my purse and silently promise to set a better example. Status updates, tweets, emails, voicemails can wait. This sweet, uninterrupted, time with my girls will not. Priorities Candace, remember your priorities.
I am a firm believer that if you can not change the situation at hand, then change the way you react to it. It’s a skill I am trying to perfect as I get older.
When my stepson was seven, he confidently walked into the kitchen and announced that he would now be going to bed an hour later every night. Such confidence, such bravado. I knew he thought about the delivery of that little message all day. “Absolutely,” we said, “no problem”. He left the kitchen beaming that he’d become the master of his own destiny. I then stood up, walked over to the stove and put the clock one hour ahead.
Some would say that’s sneaky, but I prefer to think of it as creative parenting. He wasn’t ready to go to bed an hour later but we didn’t want to squash the confidence with which he’d delivered his message. One year later the clock went back to it’s regular time and he was none the wiser. No harm, no foul.
Really though, where small switches make big differences is in a marriage. Let’s face it, it’s a long term affair and what was once cute can get pretty annoying after a couple of years. Familiarity breeds both children and contempt. Both can also put a strain on your marriage.
Now, it has been whispered in some circles that I might be slightly anal-retentive. There may or may not be some truth to this. I mean, sure I like the shoes lined up at the front door and I get a little edgy when homework, bills and tools pile up on my kitchen counter and yes, I also don’t let my husband do laundry. I have a very specific way of doing the laundry. We all have our thing, right?
One of the drawbacks of insisting that I be the only one to do laundry is that I didn’t feel I had a right to complain when my husband used to take his sweaty, dirty construction socks off inside out and throw them in the hamper. This meant I had to reach my hand in aforementioned gross, stinky sock and turn it right side out to wash it. I tolerated this for ten long years until I finally lost my cool in a blinding flash of apocalyptic fury. This, for the record, is how not to execute a small switch in your household. Sure, my husband has never put his socks in the laundry basket inside out again but he twitches uncontrollably on laundry day. It’s not pretty.
This is a more refined example of “how-to” implement an effective switch in your household. Like many homes there is the small matter of the toilet paper roll. Does it go over or under? I don't actually care. My concern is does it go on the dispenser at all. In this house, if I didn’t do it, then the answer was a resounding no. This left me in an awkward position occasionally. So, I got rid of the classic dispenser on the wall, put a small table beside the throne and now it is always fully stocked. The best part? My husband had no idea that this little switch saved him from great harm. Love you, honey.
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Ho hum. Just call me Blobby McBlobberson. I’m pretty sure my pudge has found a way to reproduce without my feeding it it’s regular supply of chips and dip. Not that I’ve stopped eating chips. I believe we’ve determined that this is an impossibility. It’s just that my body is betraying me now and actually not burning off junk food like it used to. I feel frumpy. Yummy? Not so much with the yummy. Yeah, yeah, I know it’s a state of mind, but my state of mind is saying “Wear the track pants so you can enjoy the chips more...and the cookies, and the candy, and the french fries.” Oh dear god, the french fries. I am so, so weak.
Of course, with that being said, you know what this means, right? This means I have to go back to running. Damn, damn, double damn. *Insert every major expletive here*
I was really hoping to avoid this. My love/hate relationship with running has been on the hate side since October when I ran the Disney Wine & Dine. I was ill-prepared, ran a crappy race and as my darling children continually point out, I was the last Yummy Mummy to come in. Anyway, after that run, I thought it was time to get in touch with my inner yogi. I like yoga, it’s very calming and yet can be a very intense workout. But yoga is more “Embrace your flaws, the universe loves you as you are” instead of running which is more “Your ass is getting fat. Faster. Faster lard ass” It’s like having Mr. Rogers for a coach versus Jillian Michaels.
Anyway, the final straw came when I was getting ready to watch the Oscars. I slipped on my favorite pajama bottoms. You know the pair we all have that are loose and comfortable and make you feel so thin? Except when I slipped mine on they weren’t loose anymore! What the what? Is this really happening to me? I check the tag, yup, mine. Crap. My skinny jeans already went on strike demanding better working conditions but they were tight to begin with, but my comfy jammies? It’s almost too much to bear. I am now pushing the outer limits of my comfort zone here. *Insert every major expletive here*
So this is what’s brought me back to running. This and emotional blackmail. You see, I also belong to a “running gang” and apparently once you’re part of the gang, you can’t leave. They try and tell you it’s for your own good and shit like that but it’s really because MISERY LOVES COMPANY. Why do you think marathons are so popular? Nobody would do it if they didn’t have somebody beside them they could bitch and moan to, or at least grunt and pant at like I tend to do.
So this gang decided immediately after Disney that “we” had to run another race together. Ha, ha, that’s funny I thought. I’ll be cheering you from the sidelines. I told them, "Nope, not running it", but apparently running causes deafness because they did not hear me. I’m copied in on all the “Oh won’t we have fun emails” like I’m a willing participant. I cry out to my husband like Al Pacino in The Godfather, “Just when I thought I was out, they drag me back in!” Well, them and my aforementioned fat ass.
So, I've signed up for this stupid, stupid race in May and in case you haven’t noticed I’m not happy about it. I don’t have any of those crazy endorphins running through my head right now to trick me into that. Nope, this head is currently fueled by chips and red wine. Which was all well and good until my comfy jammies got tight.
So for now, I remain a reluctant runner. Anyone wanna run this race with me in May? I’m recruiting for the gang. Fresh blood.
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