Flapjack Jam for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation

Alright local peeps, this Saturday, you have the chance to come to the Lakemont Club in our neighborhood, and attend the second annual Flapjack Jam for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation.

Between walks and fundraisers like this one, our neighborhood, lovingly nicknamed, Super Dylan Nation, raises tens of thousands of dollars that go straight to research to end Cystic Fibrosis.

We have a personal reason for this. His name is Dylan, and he is the six year old fireball behind all of this. We do it because Dylan has Cystic Fibrosis, and we want a cure for him. For Dylan and the other 69,999 people in the world with this disease.

The pancakes will be scrumptious. The company will be divine. The silent auction will be amazing (you can check out the big ticket items in this catalog, and the little shirts I made are pictured below). The entertainment will be, well, entertaining.

Kevin and I will be taking the stage together for the first time. Yep. Married five years, and we had yet to start a band. Hush. We've been busy. Our good friend Walt Hensey will be joining us on bass, and we're borrowing a lovely drummer who I've yet to meet. But I'm certain that he's lovely, because he said "yes."

So. If you can, come by on Saturday. Come early for pancakes and the auction. Mule Kickers (Kevin named us. I kinda love it.) starts at 6:00. We really want you to be there.

All in a name

Christopher.

Sunday, when I picked him up from extended stay at church, he was wearing a name tag that said, "Chris." It was distinctly in his very own handwriting.

I have proclaimed that he would always be called "Christopher" and not "Chris." Of course, I've learned a thing or two about motherly proclamations.

The thing was, he looked like a "Chris." He has gotten so much taller over the summer. He doesn't look at all like a toddler anymore because he isn't. People who meet him for the first time commonly mistake him for a five year old because of his height and his verbal skills.

He's a big boy now.

But he is still very much little. Wee very little. Especially emotionally and socially. He is still very much three years old.

He has had a hard time adjusting to his new preschool. He gets frustrated and angry. He doesn't know how to talk to the other kids. He has not wanted to listen to his teachers.

I was given this information last week. We immediately started trying to help him find his way. He and I are both working on using our nice voices more and our angry voices less. I am making mornings much more relaxed even if it makes us 10 minutes late. We are figuring out together how to help him be successful. Because he can be.

I digress.

Chris. I know I'll never call him that, but seeing it on his name tag, in his own writing, made it alright. He never would have fit "Christopher" on that little tag anyway.

Who knows? Maybe he'll end up being "Topher." That's what Colin is calling him.

How do you feel about other people nicknaming your kids? Shortening their names? Does it bother you?

Boot Camp

I have a secret.

Since June, I have been going to boot camp. Inspired by none other than Miss Zoot herself, I decided that it was time for me to get back in shape.

Baby weight (also known as milkshakes while pregnant weight) hasn't come off after Colin like it did after Christopher. I'm older. I eat too much. Go figure.

The thing is, I didn't start working out in order to lose tons of weight and fit into a size 10 again. I'm fine with my padding and pudge. It was well earned, and I don't mind it usually.

I started working out because I want to be strong again.

Do you hear that, world? I want to be strong again.

I used to be strong. I used to be powerful and tenacious. Leaving the workforce was the right thing for me to do for my children, but it took away a lot of my gumption. That's what my granddaddy would have called it. My gumption.

I'm not ready to start working outside of the home again, but I am ready to start feeling like myself. Myself in this new version of me. Me 2.0.

So, boot camp. Easier than therapy.

I get up, try not to wake Colin (never works), throw on some clothes, and dash out the door to be there in time to start at 6:00. That's 6:00 AM. Except on Saturdays when it's 8:30.

It's hard. There is a lot of running at which I suck big monkey balls. I hate running. While I run, I can't shake the thoughts of, "If someone was chasing me, and I had to run from them, I would be dead."

There is a lot of strength training that I like alright. There is a lot of dragging weird things like tires and fire hoses about which I am ambivalent. There is a sense of accomplishment that I love.

If you see me, you probably won't notice a change. I haven't lost any weight. In fact, over the past month, I've gained a few pounds. I don't have the healthiest relationship with food. It comforts me. Rewards me like I'm a canine. And when I miss my Daddy the most, I really crave a donut.

I guess I still miss him a lot.

Regardless, I'm happier. I may not be fitting into any smaller clothes (yet), but I know I'm getting stronger. And that feels awesome.

I don't take having a healthy body for granted. It feels right to be taking care of it better. I owe myself and my family at least that.

Small victories

My husband and I are a lot alike. We are a convincing argument against "opposites attract."

One thing we don't have in common though, is the ability to gauge first impressions or to quickly assess a situation. He nails it almost every time, and I am usually wrong.

I'm terrible at telling what kind of person someone is within the first five minutes of meeting them. And I'm even worse about reacting to a situation without giving thought to possible causes or scenarios - just my gut reaction - which is often wrong.

Yesterday, the boys and I were leaving the neighborhood when I had to stop suddenly for a woman who was jogging with her dog off leash down the middle of the road. Cars were parked on either side of the road, she was in the middle, and I was running late to preschool already.

Instinct: Yell. Honk. Glare. Gesture.

For some reason, I took a second look before my instincts kicked in, and I did something stupid.

The woman wasn't jogging. She probably had been jogging, but she was running. And she wasn't running with that dog off leash, she was running from the off leash dog.

I rolled down the window and yelled to her, "That isn't your dog, is it?"

She ran to the car and said, "NO! Can I get in your car, please?"

I grabbed my purse out of the passenger seat and unlocked the door. She jumped in, sat breathless for a moment, and I pulled over to the side of the road. I noticed that there was a lady standing in her yard, as though there was an invisible fence there, calling the dog - waving wildly at it.

Of course, an invisible fence was just what she needed, but for the dog, not for herself. Her Rottweiler (oh, did I forget to mention that part?) was just out, chasing this poor woman jogger, and it's owner is refusing to step foot out of her yard. Weird.

Everything worked out alright. The jogger thanked me and commented that she would be jogging with mace from now on. We made it to preschool just fine and only a few minutes late. Best of all, I was proud of myself for being more observant and less quick to snap.

Small victories, people. I'm living on small victories these days.