Biggish Family Logistics - Not Funny At All

Tornado sirens exploded in the middle-of-the-night a while back, launching John and I out of bed.  Surely a false alarm, right? Right?  Late Spring.  That's when sirens are supposed to go off.  It is not Late Spring.  It is Winter = no tornadoes.

John ran downstairs to check the radar while I paused to assess the "feel" of things.  Lots of wind, some rain, what the heck?  The warnings just kept going and when I heard an actual forecaster talking at us on television - which meant SOMETHING was going on - I launched into tornado mode. This means grab the kids and head for the basement.  Easy, right? No. Not easy because there are five kids.  Five LITTLE kids who may not be able to get themselves downstairs briskly enough for my liking, because tornadoes don't wait until everyone is in the safest spot possible before they continue on their course.

So there I was, my arms full with Annie and a maglite, directing Ainsley to head downstairs, when I headed over to the Trips' room where Lizzy (thankfully) was already out of bed.  I sent her on her way, and then I paused.  Gracie and Johnny were lights-out.  Who to grab? I can't do both because of Annie.  Would one listen and immediately follow orders so I can haul the other?

And that is what I freak about when I can't sleep at night and my brain is tormented by worst-case-scenarios. Fortunately, insomnia is rare for me.

And this is why I talk to the kids about emergency plans.

And I realize this is a bummer of a post, but everything turned out just fine.  There weren't any tornadoes in our area and John was 1/2-way up the stairs to tell me as I was part-way through my thought process.

So we went back to bed.

Oh, For Crying Out Loud

So I have this not-speedy-quick "race" in one week and, in spite of my maddening injury, I'm getting pretty fired up about it.  My 7-miler yesterday didn't produce any serious pain and I figure tacking on another 6 miles next Sunday will be a breeze.  Right? Don't worry, I'm not delusional about this. I know for a fact that my body will not be pleased with me after this gig and will yap at me about it for some weeks after.  But it's worth it.

But then tragedy struck this evening.  Real, honest-to-goodness tragedy that would have brought me to out-loud cursing if the wee ones weren't around.  I was negotiating Annie and trying to scarf down my dinner of pasta when an errant, sauce-laden noodle fell off my fork, tumbled down my shirt, my jeans, and landed with a wet plop on my running shoes.  I took a deep breath before I glanced down at the crime scene, steadied myself, stole a peek, and...flipped out.

Keep in mind I am not materialistic (at least not very).  Example: only one of my pair of jeans has intact knees and, as much as I've tried, I can not seem to bring the ill-fitting, ripped jeans statement back to it's glamor of the 80's. Therefore, I just look like a hobo, walking around my not-so-shabby neighborhood with my torn pants. My other pair of regular, non-jeans pants has the seam coming apart in the rear-area, but I also don those babies on anyway.  Heck, I even wore them to church last Sunday.

But my running shoes!!!  Now those are an entirely different animal and I am borderline neurotic about my shoes. I normally would not be wearing them around the house so they only have running miles on them, but this ridiculous plantar fasciitis necessitates constant arch support (golly I sound old!).  And I have this freaking race coming up and can not handle taking one million strides in my kicks, seeing the horribleness of a stain every time my right foot plants.  Because, even if I scrub the daylights out of them (they are soaking in Oxi Clean as I write), we all know it's nearly impossible to get red sauce completely out. 

Slow, deep breaths. They're only shoes.  They're only shoes. They're only shoes. Millions upon millions of people don't even own shoes and I should not freak about mine.  I should not.  I will not.  And I'm going to have to repeat this over and over in my head for the next several days until I don't get a case of the shakes every time I see them.

Curses!!!!

Warning: loads of whining to follow.

My body has betrayed me.

In all honesty it did a long time ago when God's plan included triplets, and I've come to a deeper, truer level of thankfulness (not to be confused with acceptance, mind you) of the aftermath of being blessed with a total of nearly 15 pounds and 51 inches of healthy babies.  Sigh. Shoulder droop.

But now.  Now my pride has taken a hit and I didn't have a lot left over to give up.

I'm supposed to be training for a 1/2- marathon coming up in...oh...3 WEEKS and I've been sidelined with an injury.  I've been running for over 25 years and have never been seriously-take-a-break-from-running injury and now is not the time. You see, running is one of the very, very, very few things I can do well and is the only form of exercise I enjoy.   

I've been fired up about this 1/2 for 8 months now and did everything just right.  Built the best base possible.  I couldn't have been more careful about increasing my mileage, blah, blah, blahbiddy blah.

And now it's ended and I'm still (stupidly) going to hobble through this thing for many reasons.   I ran 4.4 miles yesterday and my foot (plantar fasciitis) was only  yelling a little bit, so I think I can add another 9 miles to it without causing more injury, right?

Double curses.

Knufflebunny Sniffles

We love the Knufflebunny books around here and if you haven't read them, then you need to shimmy yourself down to the library and check them out. 

We gave the third one to Lizzy for Christmas and there's a problem.  A big problem.  And that problem is my eyes get all misty and my throat gets all chokey as I read the last couple pages.  For the record I am not a crier. That doesn't mean I'm unemotional, I just prefer not to cry.  So when I'm trying to play it cool and read Knufflebunny Free in a normal voice to the kids and not doing a terribly good job of it, they turn their heads around and look at me like I'm a crazy person. Then I have to cough and gather myself and continue reading, trying not to weep. And they turn around again to catch another glance as I manage to finish.  It's the "what is WRONG with you???" look.

I've read Knufflebunny Free at least 3 dozen times now and my emotional reactions don't change.  It's actually making me coo coo that a children's book can manipulate me like this. It isn't the only one. Miss Fannie's Hat has the same effect.  It's been one of Ainsley's favorites for over 3 years now.  Three years of becoming all teary when reading a book about an old lady who donates her most favorite hat "the pink straw with roses" to the church auction. 

When did my tough shell break apart?  And where are the pieces so I can glue-gun the thing back together?