25,000 people. booyah.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Advil? Check. Rock and Roll Marathon? check, check.
we came. we went. we conquered. and now, we hurt. 13.1 miles? check. check.
25,000 people. booyah.
25,000 people. booyah.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
it's a day made for dad
I tend to think most holidays (minus Easter and Christmas) are generated by the marketing cog known as Hallmark. Or Dayspring. This theory was proven on Father's Day 2009 as Hope and I shopped for cards. She kept circling back to one of those talking cards. Except this one allowed her to record her own personal message for her Daddy.
Cost? $6.99. Lee's reaction to the card? Pricless. Seriously? He loved it. For the first time in my life, I was relieved to have shelled out an insane price for paper and audio.
I called my own Dad this afternoon. He was sitting down to a roast dinner with my step-mom and her son. In keeping with my aversion to marketing cogs, I refused to partake and my Dad awoke to Father's Day cardless. And without a present.
In reality, I'm a horrible celebrator of holidays of any kind. Unless they involve my daughter. Or my husband. And even then, I'm never as planned out as I like.
On the way home from picking up my husband's favorite dinner, I caught a bit of Tavis Smiley. I'm not a frequenter of NPR, but tonight, I was. He was interviewing a 90-ish year old man that he kept referring to as "the greatest preacher on the planet." His first name was Gardner and as I type this, I remember that I meant to look up his full name on the internet.
The thing that struck me the most, was his daughter's portion of the interview. Tavis kept asking her question about the depth of her Dad's sermons. What stuck with her the most? On and on it went.
She finally just said, "You know Tavis, he was just my Daddy. I didn't understand his significance to the world until I was much, much older. Even still, I'm not sure I understand fully."
When I called my Dad, I thanked him for being my Dad. I don't think I've ever told him that. And I could tell by his reaction (a good one) that it meant something to him.
My Dad isn't grand. Or smart. He provided for his family the best he knew how. There are many things I've been embarrased about over the years. His lack of education. The scrapes he's gotten himself into - even well into his sixties. They aren't always things to be proud of. In fact, I don't know that he's proud of them.
One thing that has been constant about my Dad is who he is. He's there. He's never waivered. Never left. He sought me out when I was lost. He took me in when things were messy. And he raised me when I landed on his new family's doorstep in the most tumultuous of teen years.
I love my Dad. The smallness of him. The greatness of him. The significance of who he is.
My Dad is solid. And although we aren't close, I'm not sure how I'll manage when he's not drawing breath on this earth.
Cost? $6.99. Lee's reaction to the card? Pricless. Seriously? He loved it. For the first time in my life, I was relieved to have shelled out an insane price for paper and audio.
I called my own Dad this afternoon. He was sitting down to a roast dinner with my step-mom and her son. In keeping with my aversion to marketing cogs, I refused to partake and my Dad awoke to Father's Day cardless. And without a present.
In reality, I'm a horrible celebrator of holidays of any kind. Unless they involve my daughter. Or my husband. And even then, I'm never as planned out as I like.
On the way home from picking up my husband's favorite dinner, I caught a bit of Tavis Smiley. I'm not a frequenter of NPR, but tonight, I was. He was interviewing a 90-ish year old man that he kept referring to as "the greatest preacher on the planet." His first name was Gardner and as I type this, I remember that I meant to look up his full name on the internet.
The thing that struck me the most, was his daughter's portion of the interview. Tavis kept asking her question about the depth of her Dad's sermons. What stuck with her the most? On and on it went.
She finally just said, "You know Tavis, he was just my Daddy. I didn't understand his significance to the world until I was much, much older. Even still, I'm not sure I understand fully."
When I called my Dad, I thanked him for being my Dad. I don't think I've ever told him that. And I could tell by his reaction (a good one) that it meant something to him.
My Dad isn't grand. Or smart. He provided for his family the best he knew how. There are many things I've been embarrased about over the years. His lack of education. The scrapes he's gotten himself into - even well into his sixties. They aren't always things to be proud of. In fact, I don't know that he's proud of them.
One thing that has been constant about my Dad is who he is. He's there. He's never waivered. Never left. He sought me out when I was lost. He took me in when things were messy. And he raised me when I landed on his new family's doorstep in the most tumultuous of teen years.
I love my Dad. The smallness of him. The greatness of him. The significance of who he is.
My Dad is solid. And although we aren't close, I'm not sure how I'll manage when he's not drawing breath on this earth.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
it all began with a taco chip
My daughter's last day of third grade was today. Normally, the last day of school is filled with whoops and hollers and not a lot of tears. Today, I entered Hope's last few minutes of class to witness tears, sad speeches and a little bit of drama.
Washington state's budget is in the red (or is that in the black? I've never been good with numbers). There are many cuts being made - and the educational system is not exempt. Hope has been attending a "parent opt-in/volunteer heavy" public school for the past two years. We learned about the closing six months ago.
I think Hope and her friends saved up all of their tears for today - specifically, for the drive to our house. Thankfully, they perked up. And by perked up, I mean they flew into high gear when they saw the treat bags waiting for them.
Last night, in preparation for today, I cleaned house, sliced fruit, stacked oreos, filled bowls and sampled a few chips. Taco-flavored Dorito chips. As soon as I tasted that zesty triangle, I traveled back 28 years (ouch. that hurts!) - to junior high (that's what the kids called it back in the day. I remembered some things I hadn't thought of in years.
Sequoia Junior High. Redding, California. I was 12. My best friend's name was Jackie. Jackie Porter. She was beautiful, cool and super-smart. She was a cheerleader. Everybody loved her. Including every boy in our 7th grade class.
I was scrappy. And not beautiful. Abruptly transplanted from my newly divorced Washington home, I found myself living in a toxic home environment. I was lost - but didn't know any better. Jackie came from the land of oreos and milk. I harkened from the stench of a pack of camels and Budweiser beer with a mom and her live-in lover. We made strange bedfellows, Jackie and I - but best friends we did become. Her Mom was Dorothy Hamill meets the burbs. Only better. She was achingly normal. She made pancakes on Saturday mornings. With chocolate chips. I made my own breakfast each morning. White toast and peanut butter. I secretly prayed they would adopt me.
Diving into the toxicity of my junior high home life is really unnecessary. And by unnecessary, I mean it will send me into a funk. Just know this: Doritos and junk food were forbidden in our home. They simply didn't exist - along with other, more foundational things (b/c we know junk food really isn't a good thing!).
Jackie's home was overflowing with everything I dreamed of. Mom and Dad under the same, seemingly happy roof. A pool in the backyard. Her Mom drove us everywhere. Let us raid the pantry in the middle of the night. Stay up and watch whatever we liked. Take a swim at midnight. Looking back, I realize that those Porters really were amazing.
One of my weekly goals was to grab an invitation to Jackie's house. For the entire weekend, if possible. Once in a while, I could talk my own Mom into a sleepover - but there was such messiness and dysfunction in my land, I didn't even want to be there. The few friends that did stay the night, usually didn't come back. Camels and budweiser can be a real party buster when you're 12. Or maybe it was the grouchy mom and the drunken boyfriend?
One weekend, Jackie's Mom left us lunch in the fridge and a note that said, "Girls, help yourselves to anything. Doritos are in the cupboard. Love, Mom" I remember two things. We ate our lunch by the pool. And I had my first taste of true Dorito goodness: the taco-flavored chip. Those little guys were the most amazing thing I'd ever tasted.
I was in love with that Porter family. Sometimes I still wish they had adopted me. Or would adopt me today.
Jackie and I lost contact sometime toward the high school years. I moved in with my Dad prior to our 9th grade year - to Hawaii. I actually began my own little downward spiral into questionable choices. My Dad was the giver of freedom. And more than one adventure with Doritos. Jackie and I did see one another the summer before out 10th grade year. She was still amazing. Still a cheerleader. And still my best friend.
So back to that end of the year party preparation last night. I ate a few taco-flavored Doritos. And shot back 28 years to Jackie Porter's house. Eating lunch by the side of her pool. Listening to the strains of the album "1999." (yes, album. Prince, circa 1980). Drinking Mr. Pibb. Remembering how kind her parents were to me - and how much I loved being at their house. I felt so free.
Afterschool today, my daughter and her friends were a blubbering mess. I'll confess it right now - although I was sad, I tend to come from the place of "that's life." I changed schools almost as often as my socks. I was irritated that so much drama was ensuing. And then, I remembered Jackie. More specifically, I remembered her Mom.
I gathered the little troop of weepy girls and stayed in the moment with them. I thought about a lot of true things I could share with them. That this is the ladder of life. Sometimes, the rung breaks. God sees it - and doesn't fix it. We just have to trust.
Instead, I let them have their 9-year-old tears. For the school they love. For the teachers they will miss. For the friends who are going to other schools next year. I would have cried myself, but I knew we'd be in a heap of trouble then.
So, I fed them processed chicken nuggets. We made sundaes (toppings with a little ice cream). The girls swam. I let them listen to Hannah Montana on the outside speakers as loud as their hearts' desired. They sang. And danced. And laughed a lot. I spent an hour drawing bright green and purple dots and flowers on fingernails and said a very small prayer that goes something like this:
Lord - I don't know how to walk this thing called parenthood. But I know You do. Please make my home a place where these girls feel free and see a glimmer of You. And make my heart a place that's pleasing to you. Amen.
No big revelation. But I do know this: Our house is a fun place where Hope's friends can eat as many taco chips as they like. My God is a strange and wonderful worker of situations. And the redeemer of even the most scrappy life. Including mine.
Washington state's budget is in the red (or is that in the black? I've never been good with numbers). There are many cuts being made - and the educational system is not exempt. Hope has been attending a "parent opt-in/volunteer heavy" public school for the past two years. We learned about the closing six months ago.
I think Hope and her friends saved up all of their tears for today - specifically, for the drive to our house. Thankfully, they perked up. And by perked up, I mean they flew into high gear when they saw the treat bags waiting for them.
Last night, in preparation for today, I cleaned house, sliced fruit, stacked oreos, filled bowls and sampled a few chips. Taco-flavored Dorito chips. As soon as I tasted that zesty triangle, I traveled back 28 years (ouch. that hurts!) - to junior high (that's what the kids called it back in the day. I remembered some things I hadn't thought of in years.
Sequoia Junior High. Redding, California. I was 12. My best friend's name was Jackie. Jackie Porter. She was beautiful, cool and super-smart. She was a cheerleader. Everybody loved her. Including every boy in our 7th grade class.
I was scrappy. And not beautiful. Abruptly transplanted from my newly divorced Washington home, I found myself living in a toxic home environment. I was lost - but didn't know any better. Jackie came from the land of oreos and milk. I harkened from the stench of a pack of camels and Budweiser beer with a mom and her live-in lover. We made strange bedfellows, Jackie and I - but best friends we did become. Her Mom was Dorothy Hamill meets the burbs. Only better. She was achingly normal. She made pancakes on Saturday mornings. With chocolate chips. I made my own breakfast each morning. White toast and peanut butter. I secretly prayed they would adopt me.
Diving into the toxicity of my junior high home life is really unnecessary. And by unnecessary, I mean it will send me into a funk. Just know this: Doritos and junk food were forbidden in our home. They simply didn't exist - along with other, more foundational things (b/c we know junk food really isn't a good thing!).
Jackie's home was overflowing with everything I dreamed of. Mom and Dad under the same, seemingly happy roof. A pool in the backyard. Her Mom drove us everywhere. Let us raid the pantry in the middle of the night. Stay up and watch whatever we liked. Take a swim at midnight. Looking back, I realize that those Porters really were amazing.
One of my weekly goals was to grab an invitation to Jackie's house. For the entire weekend, if possible. Once in a while, I could talk my own Mom into a sleepover - but there was such messiness and dysfunction in my land, I didn't even want to be there. The few friends that did stay the night, usually didn't come back. Camels and budweiser can be a real party buster when you're 12. Or maybe it was the grouchy mom and the drunken boyfriend?
One weekend, Jackie's Mom left us lunch in the fridge and a note that said, "Girls, help yourselves to anything. Doritos are in the cupboard. Love, Mom" I remember two things. We ate our lunch by the pool. And I had my first taste of true Dorito goodness: the taco-flavored chip. Those little guys were the most amazing thing I'd ever tasted.
I was in love with that Porter family. Sometimes I still wish they had adopted me. Or would adopt me today.
Jackie and I lost contact sometime toward the high school years. I moved in with my Dad prior to our 9th grade year - to Hawaii. I actually began my own little downward spiral into questionable choices. My Dad was the giver of freedom. And more than one adventure with Doritos. Jackie and I did see one another the summer before out 10th grade year. She was still amazing. Still a cheerleader. And still my best friend.
So back to that end of the year party preparation last night. I ate a few taco-flavored Doritos. And shot back 28 years to Jackie Porter's house. Eating lunch by the side of her pool. Listening to the strains of the album "1999." (yes, album. Prince, circa 1980). Drinking Mr. Pibb. Remembering how kind her parents were to me - and how much I loved being at their house. I felt so free.
Afterschool today, my daughter and her friends were a blubbering mess. I'll confess it right now - although I was sad, I tend to come from the place of "that's life." I changed schools almost as often as my socks. I was irritated that so much drama was ensuing. And then, I remembered Jackie. More specifically, I remembered her Mom.
I gathered the little troop of weepy girls and stayed in the moment with them. I thought about a lot of true things I could share with them. That this is the ladder of life. Sometimes, the rung breaks. God sees it - and doesn't fix it. We just have to trust.
Instead, I let them have their 9-year-old tears. For the school they love. For the teachers they will miss. For the friends who are going to other schools next year. I would have cried myself, but I knew we'd be in a heap of trouble then.
So, I fed them processed chicken nuggets. We made sundaes (toppings with a little ice cream). The girls swam. I let them listen to Hannah Montana on the outside speakers as loud as their hearts' desired. They sang. And danced. And laughed a lot. I spent an hour drawing bright green and purple dots and flowers on fingernails and said a very small prayer that goes something like this:
Lord - I don't know how to walk this thing called parenthood. But I know You do. Please make my home a place where these girls feel free and see a glimmer of You. And make my heart a place that's pleasing to you. Amen.
No big revelation. But I do know this: Our house is a fun place where Hope's friends can eat as many taco chips as they like. My God is a strange and wonderful worker of situations. And the redeemer of even the most scrappy life. Including mine.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
one day in may...
It's been an age since the urge to blog has hit me. Not sure it's with me now, but here I am. Nice pic, eh? A self-portrait taken this weekend during a 10-mile training jaunt.This weekend gave the gift of amazing weather. I'm still holding it tightly. Seeing the sun and blue sky completely motivates me. And by motivates, I mean, gives super powers. :)
The Rock and Roll Marathon is just a month away. A little troupe has gathered together and are attempting to train for this thing (the half). This weekend's 12-miler turned into 10 for the whole of us. We ventured out to Pt. Defiance Park's 5-mile-route. It's now my new favorite place to train. The hills are a little crazy. I won't lie (hence the 12 turning to 10). To say it was a great workout, doesn't do it justice. It was amazing.
One of the vantage points along the route. I tend to be cruising alone. Slower than the rest. But still made great time. Kept waiting for the downhill portion of the route. Note: there weren't many. The Ipod was never even fired up. The atomsphere had me completely engaged.
One of our walking peeps, taking a little break as we took a gander at the Narrows Bridge.
Overall, an amazing weekend made even brighter by seeing my dear friend Nancy - whom I haven't seen in years (but speak to and facebook with regularly)! She's doing the marathon too and did 12 miles at Pt Defiance with her friend, Anita. I also laid eyes on my sweet friend Shannon, her hubby and her adorable girls! An unexpecuted but fabulous surprise on Saturday afternoon! :)
I don't know why I'm sharing - but my hands also stained a deck and a fence (see below) on Friday evening- after a yoga class. The combination left me a little achey as the group headed out for the mileage. Sunday morning found me feeling...pretty good.
That's really it. Our family is really looking forward to the summer months - for so many reasons. A small break from the pace we keep. Conquering the half-marathon. A visit from my sister. Picking some berries. A visit or two to the waterpark. Fourth of July in Yakima. A visit to Arizona (we hope). And a camping trip to southern Oregon and a day trip down the Rogue River. Strangely, I can't wait for Hope to experience rafting on the Rogue. I think she'll love it!
Embracing June...an the sun! And ZUMBA! My new favorite workout (thanks, Danielle!). :)
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
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