On the drive to Leta’s school she will ask me at least forty times what is on the menu for lunch. Per our therapist’s advice I make a non issue of this. Meaning I answer, “I don’t know.” When she proceeds to worry out loud that it’s probably something horrifying and nasty, like a hamburger, I tell her it could be worse. In some parts of the world kids eat cockroaches for lunch. With a side of tarantula. HOW DOES THAT HAMBURGER SOUND NOW?
You see, I can only do the non issue partially. I’m working on carrying out the non issue completely, but my personality is all caps and italics. There are no all caps and italics in the non issue. The non issue is a total pussy.
When we pull up to her school, I tell her how much I love her and that she is going to have a fantastic day. She grabs her backpack and waves goodbye, and when she closes the door and walks toward the entrance of her school I always take a few seconds to watch her. This is a snapshot of my seven-year-old daughter slowly growing into independence, walking by herself into school, bracing herself for the hamburger.
I head straight to the gym because the Monday spin class starts about ten minutes after I drop off Leta, and I really like to get a specific bike in a specific part of the room. That was probably the least surprising sentence I’ve ever written.
Heather likes things a certain way? YOU FILTHY LIAR! I’ve never seen her walk into a toilet stall, see that the toilet paper is hanging the wrong direction and decide that there is no possible way she could urinate in such questionable circumstances.
My trainer is the spin instructor, and she really likes to screw with me. One Monday she saw that I was looking a bit weary, so she decided that we’d do jumps on the bike. The entire hour. Two seconds up, two seconds down. While spinning our legs. For sixty straight minutes. By the end of that hour my lady parts resembled minced meat. And then when I used the bathroom it felt distinctly like I was pissing fire. Good times.
Even after that class, though, and after all spin classes I feel jubilant, like I could totally conquer the world. The surge of endorphins after a workout that intense is why I keep going back. I like to say that the gym is my church and my trainer is my bishop, in the name of My Hamstrings and Triceps, amen.
When I get home after class McKenzie and Marlo are usually snuggling on the couch watching Barney, or as Marlo says, “Bardy.” Kid loves that show, asks for it every morning, and when I found out that McKenzie had introduced Marlo to it I almost made McKenzie a cuss word.
Anyone who has ever endured months of that purple monster and his minions knows exactly what I’m talking about. You think you wouldn’t ever hit a kid, and then you see the children on this show and how creepily they sing about the muffin man, and suddenly you’re all, god, I hope someone drops that kid on his head.
I visit with the two of them for about fifteen minutes, see how everything is going, try to gauge Marlo’s mood in case today is the day she ends up in a cast. And then I head upstairs to clean up a bit. I wash up some, but I leave the full cleansing until the evening, after the kids go to bed when I can soak lazily in the tub. This means that I wear a combination of workout clothes and old t-shirts all day long. So, HA! There goes the theory that bloggers just sit around in their pajamas! NO! We sit around in our sweaty workout clothes!
MYTH JUST GOT BUSTED.