On stubbornness and kissing

It's no secret that Owen is an affectionate creature. From the get-go he's preferred snuggles and cuddles, especially with mama. Of course, this isn’t a particularly difficult sacrifice to make on my part. James, while occasionally inclined to initiate a hug, largely keeps to himself and views physical affection as a "have to" rather than "get to."

Owen is also jealous of others hugging Mama. If I'm reading James a story on the couch he'll run over at top speed, dive-bombing into the middle of our book. He then wiggles around until he's wedged in between us. If Roy and I are hugging (or “worse”) in the kitchen it is never more than a few seconds before a little blonde head is head-butting at our knees, desperate to cut in. He used to want to join in the hug, but now just shoves Roy away.

I must admit, if they're the right men, it's great to be fought over. 

Sunday night we had a food battle. Owen, turns out, can be as stubborn as James when it comes to eating certain vegetables. All we asked for was one bite of yellow squash. 90 minutes later it was bedtime and it was still sitting in front of him. Roy loaded him up and took him to brush teeth and put him to bed. I heard, for the first time all evening, real trauma in his voice as he realized Mama wasn't going to be the one to read him his story and snuggle him to bed. 

"Mama!!! Ma-MAAAAA!!!" 

I listened as Roy brushed his teeth and changed his diaper, then figured I might would say good night. Owen literally leaped out of Roy's arms into mine and held me tight. We went to the rocking chair and read, a bit half-heartedly for my part, his current favorite. And then we said prayers. I was still semi-frustrated at his lack of cooperation at supper, but he was as happy as could be.

I turned him around and said "ok, hugs and kisses."

He planted a big wet one square on my lips. This is not normal behavior. My surprise must have registered. He looked at me for a sec, got a big mischievous grin on his face, then angled his head, reached for my face, and gave me a full-on, foot-popping KISS, just like Daddy does.

I'm sure this is what he was envisioning.

He was immensely proud of himself.

It's so hard to stay upset at that kid.

Book 51/50: The Mannings: The Fall and Rise of a Football Family. A brand new book out by Lars Anderson about Archie, Peyton, and Eli. It should be noted that this book really doesn’t touch much on any “falls.” It’s painted in extremely bright, glowing colors about the relationships of the Mannings with each other, and with football. I respect the Mannings a lot, and maybe all that glow is true, but it felt a bit saccharine to me after a while.

Book 52/50: Knives at Dawn: America’s Quest for Culinary Glory at the Legendary Bocuse d’Or Competition. This was a quick, entertaining read exploring the USA’s journey in 2008-2009 to select, train, and compete a duo (one chef, one commis) at one of the biggest international cooking competitions. Held biannually, the Bocuse d’Or is a grueling 5 hour cooking marathon, in front of thousands of people and the best chefs in the world. Even if you aren’t into cooking, this read like an athlete’s mission for Olympic gold. Loved it.

Date Night In: By the Fire

Yesterday was our anniversary and we celebrated by Roy working from 9-11:30 and me from 2-9:30. It was really special.

Anniversary Date Night In was held on Wednesday and it actually was really special.

In the first realm of specialness, the pretzel buns. Here’s what the book says they should look like.

And here’s what they actually looked like.

#uglyassin

(That’s “ugly as sin”, not…whatever alternative translation you want to come up with.)

I’ve made pretzels before and even if they come out of their baking soda bath a little lumpy looking they poof up nicely in the oven. Not so this time. Even Roy couldn’t suppress a laugh when he saw the finished product. We counted on their bite being better than their bark.

I’m afraid I didn’t spend much of Wednesday focusing solely on my children and cherishing every second of their little lives. It was a clock-watching day. How many more hours until bedtime? I was hungry for good food and good time with Roy. He took the boys up at 7:15PM and I immediately started sautéing shallots and melting cheese for our non-fire-pit fontina dip. I cut up one of the #uglyassin pretzel rolls to dip in this Italian fondue. And the instant Roy reemerged from stories and prayers it was READY.

It looked pretty ugly. Not nice to photograph. Should have presented in the skillet or a dipping bowl or something. I apologize for the ugliness. (At least I tore up the roll as to mask its horrific appearance.)

Don't say I didn't warn you.

As was the theme of the menu, it tasted better than it looked. It tasted great. And, while sometimes eating cheese straight up doesn’t agree with my stomach, this wasn’t a problem. I'll be making more for lunch.

The timer beeped and Roy pulled out the foil-wrapped packet of potatoes, garlic, oil, salt and pepper. He tossed them lightly in sour cream and dill while I cooked two sausages over our non-fire-pit stovetop. They were then tucked into pretzel rolls, slathered in mustard cream cheese, and covered in Roy’s pickled peppers.

That’s the way to eat a hot dog my friends.

The potato salad was warm and dilly and we both commented on how nice it was to eat meat, bread, and potatoes for supper. Most certainly not our normal fare but what an excellent, satisfying treat!

For dessert I pulled out the s’mores terrine that had chilled in the fridge. We sliced off respectable hunks and enjoyed the rich chocolate dotted with graham cracker chunks and chewy marshmallows. It was like s’more fudge. Ashley recommends cutting a slice and using it as the chocolate in an actual s’more. A s’more within a s’more if you will. We have ample leftovers to try this. I’ll let you know if we do.

I had, yet again, recurring dreams of guzzling glass after glass of water that night. We didn’t add nearly as much salt into these dishes as some other DNIs, but things like the sausages came pre-loaded.

At this point in my summaries I try to include a quote from Ashley’s opening entry presenting each DNI. This one was all about how she and her husband built a fire pit together and how their strengths complemented each other in its construction. The last time Roy and I had a bonfire we didn’t put it out all the way and woke up the next morning to discover the cover for our little pit was burned into a melty, ruined mess. (And melty, unlike the fontina dip, is not good in this instance.) So how about if we skip the Ashley quote this month?

My parents learned from an early age that, with me, anticipation is most of the fun. Surprise birthday parties, while enjoyable in theory, rob you of looking forward to the birthday party. I think one of the reasons this summer was so incredible was because of how hard I looked forward to it. Date Night In has become something I am excited about for days and weeks ahead of time.

Roy, happy anniversary. More than birthday parties, summer, and date nights--being with you means I always have something to look forward to.

August Date Night In: Preparations

Menu

·         Fire-Pit Fontina with Tomatoes, Rosemary, and Lemon

·         German Pretzel Sandwiches

·         Smoky Potato Salad with Sour Cream and Dill

·         S’mores Terrine with Smoked Salt

New ingredients (to me):

·         Fontina cheese

·         Liquid smoke

We decided, in the spirit of post-vacation, snap-back-to-reality, frugality to save our Date Night In this month for our anniversary. That way we’d be combining two special occasions. I’m fine with it, especially since September is just around the corner and we won’t have to wait very long to do this again!

Most of the food is supposed to be done over a fire. I don’t think we’re going to do that. We’d both like to smell nice for our anniversary dinner, I tend to be a mosquito chew toy by campfires, and we don’t have the right gear to get a predictable outcome on the cooks of various dishes. So we probably won’t have a very smoky potato salad and our s’mores have unsmoked flake salt dusted on them instead. We expect it will all still taste just fine.

Last night we pickled peppers (Roy), prepped pretzel dough for a slow rise overnight (me), made mustard-whipped cream cheese (Roy), and made s’mores terrine (me). Chocolate lovers unite. There’s 12 ounces of high quality dark chocolate in our terrine. Smiles all around.

Tonight shouldn’t be too complicated, she said hopefully. We will make the potato salad, which is supposed to be served warm (I’m not sure how I feel about this, but the ingredients look amazing), and cook the fontina. I’ll bake pretzel rolls in a couple of hours. (Doing anything pretzelly takes me back to my childhood and family pretzel nights at the Davis house. Mom would make the dough and divide it into handfuls ready to be rolled out. We would do our best to make long, even snakes of dough. One of the kids would invariably struggle with this. Then the old twist-and-flick to create pretzels. Wingardium leviosa! A quick blitz in a baking soda bath and into the oven. Mustard or cinnamon sugar to finish it off. Oh man.)

Right now it’s off to a fresh cup of coffee and reading/nap (depending on the quality of the coffee). Library trip this morning means there’s much to flip through!

Results of Puff Pastry Round 1

Everybody, I'd like you to meet the quesito.

"Isn't it bee-yoo-ti-ful?"
ALSO...look at the mixer in the background. I've obviously been subconsciously influenced by Monica's kitchen.

Quesito is a pastry from Puerto Rico that I discovered at our local Italian bakery. (Don't ask because I don't know.) All I know is that it's delicious. Puff pastry stuffed with sweetened cream cheese, egg washed, dusted in sparkling sugar, and baked.

As you've read, my first attempt at puff pastry was not a complete success. But I wasn't going to waste 5 cups of bread flour and 1 1/2 cups of butter without attempting some type of actual bake. And quesito is relatively simple.

I think the picture I took of them is maybe a little deceiving. Those babies are dense. I couldn't get the dough to roll out as thinly as I hoped. So Mary Berry should be pleased. Because there are LOTS of "lairs."

Owen watched me pull the quesito out of the oven with intense longing in his eyes. And many sounds out of his mouth. "Mow! Mow!" ("More! More!")

So we sat down and ate one piping hot. It was really good. Lots more "mows."

We also had chocolate ice cream yesterday. It was a good day to be an Owen.

I have more dough and more filling, so more quesito for everybody! Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go for a long run to burn off all that butter...

Adventures in Puff Pastry, Episode 1

Well, we are back from a month of adventure. I miss the sandy shore, the free time, and the family and friends. (Roy may or may not have called me out on my depressed attitude this morning.) It’s going to be a long time until next summer...

But one nice thing about being home is being in my kitchen once again! Also, The Great British Baking Show, which I didn’t watch on PBS this summer. Have no worries though friends: thanks to the internet and two free evenings I’m alllllllll caught up. :D

The Great British Baking Show inspires me to try new things. Last year it convinced me to wish for a stand mixer. (A purchase which has proven useful on just about a daily basis.) This year apparently it persuaded me to attempt making my own puff pastry. Why? Well, it’s a lot cheaper than a stand mixer, for one. I’m not entirely sure…it’s not like I buy store-bought pastry to make things. It just seemed like a new adventure in the science and art of baking. So much to get right.

And soooo easy to get wrong. I have my first batch chilling in the fridge and have already made at least three rookie mistakes. 1. I didn’t watch any Youtube tutorials, which in today’s age is stupidity at its finest. Why wouldn’t you watch a bunch of professionals before you wasted ¾ of a pound of butter? 2. I folded the dough incorrectly when I encased the initial block of butter. This has made subsequent rollings-out much trickier. 3. I didn’t knead the initial dough OR let it rest long enough. So it’s not terribly pliable.

So there’s butter leaking out of busted bubbles in my puff pastry dough. It’s OK though—I’m still practicing the rhythm of chilling, rolling, and turning. And I’m going to see if I can get anything workable out of this batch. And then I’m going to try again.

Donations of butter gladly accepted, because otherwise this may end up costing more than a stand mixer after all.

Book 50/50: That’s right: FIFTY books in 2016! <trumpet fanfares> Under the Tuscan Sun. I think there’s some kind of chick-flick loosely based on this book. However, I didn’t realize that when I picked it up and, after watching the trailer of the movie this morning, have little desire to see it. I don’t think they share anything other than a house in Tuscany. If Elvera Berry didn’t write this book her twin Elvira Buettner did, because it reads exactly like her writing. A memoir of a literature professor who purchases a run-down dwelling in Cortona, in the heart of Tuscany. This book made me hungry for all things Italian: pasta, mushrooms, olives, wine, and shoooooooes. With the exception of an odd foray into all things spiritual (despite admitting freely that she is "a pagan") at the end, a lovely trip to Italy through the eyes of a smart, reflective woman.

The perfect summer

When I was 17 I had the perfect summer. Somehow I managed to cram in two weeks at music camp, one week at Myrtle Beach, one week at an inner-city missions trip, one week at Bible camp, one week at church camp, and somehow managed to wash my clothes in between all the packing and repacking. It was as full of fun and memories and life changing experiences as you could possibly imagine. (I paid for it the following summer when I worked between 50-60 hours a week saving for my first semester of college.)

Yes, the summer of ’02 is one I have lifted to the gold medal level of summers. It tops them all. And I haven’t had a summer that’s really come close. Until this year.

This summer was practically perfect. As yet another Rochester winter melted into a bevy of spring concerts I found myself holding on for dear life. And then, finally, by the middle of June, we entered the sweetness of my favorite season.

Two glorious weddings, my birthday, two particularly stellar weeks at Csehy, a staycation, and then a full week at Rehoboth Beach followed by four days in PA with my folks. (And the Olympics were on for two weeks.) I remember what it is to feel fully alive. I watched a meteor shower at 11PM on the beach with my husband. I ran along the shore for miles, never feeling out of breath, drinking in the salty breeze and cool waves. I read at least a dozen books. I drank great coffee and found some new wonderful cold brew options courtesy of Starbucks. I’ve never had more fun in my kitchen. I’ve worn more makeup this summer than in my entire life, and it’s because I had the time and enjoyed doing it. Self-care is a real thing. I am finally starting to believe it a little bit.

My boys have grown. Owen is saying new words every day and reaching for independence as far as is humanly possible for a twenty-one month old. James has quietly grown about a foot and a half in height, while displaying new measures of compassion, intelligence, musicality, and humor. I had a little extra time this summer to step back and marvel at their little lives and how good God did when He made them.

I’ve seen my extended family. I celebrate that I am as comfortable around my in-laws as I am anyone. To be with them is to be home. Sometime in the past year the blurring line in my mind of “married into” went away. I am a Smith. And I love it.

I am also a Davis. And I love it. To sing alongside my brother and sister-in-law at their church was an honor. To cry, in person, with my mother over hopes and dreams so filling. To watch my dad guide his grandbabies in the great outdoors brought more tears to my eyes. And to praise the Lord for his mercies in protecting my baby brother through a potentially life-threatening crash…wordless.

Perhaps you can understand why it took me a little longer than usual to drag my sorry behind out the door to work today. My first in-office day in weeks. I pumped myself up on the drive thinking about connecting with my coworkers and reflecting on the past few months.

When I got in my office there was a message waiting for me. “Hey Julie! Would you mind giving this a listen and be ready to talk about it with me in a bit?”

I clicked the link.

It was to a Christmas musical.

Wahhhhhh!

I need more summer.

Book 49/50: The Piano Shop on the Left Bank: Discovering a Forgotten Passion in a Paris Atelier. I finished this a few weeks ago but forgot to put it on the blog for listing’s sake. This came highly recommended from a well-read friend. It was very well written and, as a pianist, naturally interesting. It was one of those artsy books—it was supposed to be as poetic and allusive as it was factual, even as a memoir. It was not particularly gripping—I chose to pick it up each evening. But I finished it, enjoyed it, and recommend it. 

Beach days

Sunday morning: James refuses to even touch the water. He does, however, dig in the sand and moves mighty mountains of it around in his Tonka dump truck. Owen, with a new matching truck, helps for a few minutes, then goes and jumps in waves with Mommy or Daddy for two hours. Woe to the grownup who dares remove him from the water. Daddy quickly loses his sunglasses to a particularly violent wave. Mommy and Daddy try to keep their eyes open after arriving at 3AM that morning. Even though the boys got minimal sleep, they were still raring to go at 7:30. The adults agree that the salt air is rejuvenating, just like you read about in books. Later, they go running on the beach and are delighted to discover that the magic of the shore means you never get tired running.

Monday morning: Mommy half-drags James down to the water line and plops down in the sand to let the very edge of the waves tickle her toes. James, reluctantly, joins her. Owen runs head-long into her lap. Daddy joins in a minute and the four hold hands and wait for the water. It isn’t too bad. Within five minutes James is up to his waist, Owen is laughing uproariously, and all four are soaked. James declares that the waves are “awesome” “incredible” and “so great to enjoy.” Upon his return to the beach house three hours later he proudly informs Grandma that he “tried a little bit of everything today.” Daddy breaks his new, cheap, replacement pair of sunglasses. The adults go for a much longer run in the evening and still don’t get tired, even after overshooting their exit by at least a half mile.

Tuesday morning: Owen figures out how to sit on a boogie board, with Daddy’s help. This is now all he wants to do, so Mommy and Daddy alternate jumping waves with Owen while James digs trenches and sits on the edge of the water. Daddy breaks his second cheap replacement pair of sunglasses and Mommy loses her first to a particularly violent wave. (Yes, that’s right. So far we’ve gone through four pairs of sunglasses between the two of us…) Mommy finally finishes a book and the weather continues to be perfect: mid 80s, breezy, and sunny. You forget that vacations are actually really wonderful and rejuvenating and a glorious form of self-care. And that self-care is OK now and then. <Repeats over and over and over and over again.>

And the United States is trouncing the world in women’s gymnastics. Perfection.

 Book 48/50: Gone Girl. This was a really fascinating, suspenseful, reasonably well-written tale. It was also FULL of profanity and graphic detail. Some details were necessary, most weren't. If the author had pared down the grime this would have been a phenomenal book. But I can't recommend it from any type of moral perspective.

Could we BE having any more fun?!

Joint blog: beach preparations, lists, and grammar

R: How do you say ‘lease’ in French?

J: <blank stare>

R: “It’s lebiel.”

J: <mistypes it>

R: No. Le bail.

J: Wow. First attempt wasn’t even close.

R: I’m almost done.

R: So we go to the beach tomorrow.

J: Yeeeeeeeesssssssss.

R: We haven’t packed a thing yet.

J: No, but we did the most important part. We made a LIST of what to pack. We are king and queen of lists.

R: And I made a list of questions to discuss in the car.

J: That is helpful too, in case the boys decide to stop singing Old MacDonald at the top of their lungs.

R: “Me I Me I Moe.”

J: I’m getting pretty excited to see my family and pack this slow-roasted pork shoulder we’ve been smelling all day. Lucky Davises get to sample round two of our latest DNI triumph.

R: If there’s any left. We’ve been eating through the very bottomest empty pantry shelves and refrigerator drawers, and there are still 28 hours to go in which we need to choose between ramen noodle packets that you bought when you were pregnant with James or a perfectly roasted pork shoulder. Are you sure that we told them we were bringing food down?

J: Well, it just came out of the oven, falling off the bone. What do you think?
R: It was even better than I remembered.

J: So anyway, LISTS. The big question is, are we going to make a list of things to do while we’re at the beach? I’ve long contended that such a list contradicts the very meaning of what a vacation is.

R: But you won’t be able to enjoy the vacation unless you feel like you’re winning it, by making progress on your list.

J: When you say “you” do you mean “me” or “us” or “my father-in-law”?

R: There’s a lovely idiom in French where you can substitute “on” which can mean “one, we, or you” and use it in phrases like, “one must try the soup.” It’s fairly common relative to the English equivalent, and I think that’s what I intended.

J: … OK then. Fancy French footwork. What are you most looking forward to at the beach?
R: One must practice the trumpet rigorously. Just kidding. I want to get in the water. And drag James into the water kicking and screaming. And drag Owen out of the deep water kicking and screaming.

J: I’m excited to watch the boys play in nature’s sandbox. Nature’s sandbox…that sounds very weird. And watch the waves come in. And find a crab. If we don’t find a crab I think James’ heart will be broken.

R: And to hear the seagulls.

J: Which we can already hear daily in our local bank’s parking lot…

R: Those are BAYgulls.

J: Oh. Sure. I like bagels.

R: And you’ll wear a bikini. That’s on my list to enjoy.

J: Ummmmm. I will wear a two-piece. But it’s not a bikini.

R: Sur la plage on faut s’habille une bikini.

J: Right. Also. THE OLYMPICS!!!!!! Stop grabbing the keyboard to correct your grammar in the sentence above.

R: Yes, we will lose you for three nights to the women’s gymnastics.

J: <happy smile> But THEY are NOT going to lose. It’s going to be epic! 4 years ago I watched it in a lake house in MD. This year, a beach house in DE. Four years from now, Europe???

R: <something in French>

J: This isn’t fun anymore.

R: We’ve been so excited about going that we even told our bakery friends. Yes, we have friends at the bakery now.

J: They give us free cookies. Of course we consider them friends. It’s nice of them to consider us theirs, considering “we” smudge up their glass display cases with our grimy noses and fingers and run through the waiting line with no regard for the customers ahead of us.

R: One must get as close to the cookie as possible.

J: One must. We usually give the boys a little Italian cookie and we each pick out something fancy and new to try, with great names like “sfogliatella” and “quesito” and “rum baba.” Today we outdid ourselves and ordered as slice of “ding dong cake.”

R: It’s like a fancy Ho-Ho.

J: It was pretty good, in spite of the name.

R: Do you remember when you were little and you would have a Ho-Ho? And part of it would stick to the little piece of cardboard underneath?

J: Yup.

R: One must lick all the chocolate off.

J: Chocolate with the texture of wax.

R: Anyway, our baker friend is also going to the beach next week.

J: She looked as excited as we are about getting away.

R: And one of the other workers recommended that we go to some place like Chincoteague, although not Chincoteague, which has wild horses near the beach we’ll be visiting.

J: Something else to add to the non-list of things to do. Why is Owen fussing in his bed? It is not time to get up yet.

R: He’s excited about the beach.

J: I hope he’s excited enough to fall asleep in his car seat for the trip there.

R: Whenever you ask him about the beach he says “no no no”—he isn’t excited. But if you ask him about seeing Grandma Davis he’ll smile and nod. And if you ask him about Grandpa Davis…he’s OK too.

J: We will pack the laptop, but aren’t promising to be faithful bloggers whilst we vacate. One can get too close to checking one’s work email once the computer is opened you know.

R: What else will we do? Mini-golf?
J: I think I have a better time imagining what mini-golf with James and Owen would be like than it would actually probably be like.

R: Kind of like Christmas morning.

J: In my head it’s a riot. James is being extremely meticulous about what size club he chooses, what color ball he needs “GREEN”, and counts each stroke. Owen tries to stick his ball “BLUE—chosen by James” into his mouth and bats his club at James’ ball.

R: But in reality we would just be fishing Owen out of the unnaturally-colored water all of the time.

J: Probably. You can always reduce the situation to a lower common factor. The big question is, will Grandpa Davis figure out some way to take us on a hike? At the beach? In Delaware? This could be his biggest challenge yet.

R: And we’ll read. I envy your Kindle this week when we have to pack lightly.

J: I love my Kindle. I don’t think I exaggerate when I say I bet I would just be approaching the halfway point of my 50 books in a year project if I didn’t have it.

R: And instead you’re approaching the finish line. From now until December you can just veg on the couch and watch TV.

J: If I read all of the books I plan on bringing to the beach (via Kindle) I will definitely go over the 50 book mark. And I’ll keep reading! And also re-watch all of the Olympic gymnastics competitions while vegging on the couch. Because, rewards.

R: You might be really bummed once the Olympics and beach are over.

J: Did you just end that sentence with a preposition?
R: You might be really bummed once the Olympics and beach are over, bitch.

J: <Doubles over laughing>

One must understand that this is a long running joke…forgive us Great-Grandma Davis.

One Year!

Roy, bearer of all knowledge, informed me this morning that one year ago today we purchased a pair of pink Nike running shoes. The shoes symbolized the start of my commitment to running.

I didn’t want to start running, if we’re honest. This is because I had started running--multiple times in the past--and never liked it. It felt like such WORK all the time. I would read of athletes, friends, family even, who would run and feel exhilarated and free. I felt heavy, hot, and slow. The last time I gave it a real shot was three years ago. I tweaked something in my hip within two weeks of training for a 5K and couldn’t walk without twinges for another two months.

My sweet husband has been running for years, and he’s naturally gifted at it. (Shocker, I know…) He is also aware of my moods and personality enough to know that I’m a much happier, energetic, nice human when I have exercised. And so he nudged me in the direction of picking up running again. “It’s cheap, it’s exhilarating, you don’t have to do it for long to get in a good workout, and you get outside!”

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Roy is also no fool. He totally bribed me with new shoes. I caved. What gal doesn’t want new shoes?! I reluctantly dragged myself to Dicks with him and tried on a half-dozen pairs of--Oh, hello!--pretty pretty shoes. I ran around the store and on a treadmill they had to test the different brands. And, ultimately, thankfully, the Nikes were the most comfortable and not nearly as pricey as some of the other options. I’ve had foot issues since middle school and I knew it was critical to find great footwear if this even had a chance. (I should note that the hot pink ones I ended up with weren’t especially my first choice color-wise, but they didn’t have the same brand in a different color in my size.)

The bright pink ended up being a real pick-me-up during the gray winter. Glancing down and seeing a pop of pink kept me going on some long, really cold days.

The shoes were expensive enough that I knew I needed to use them in order to not be plagued with guilt. And when we then purchased a new-to-us, top of the line, double jogging stroller, my fate was sealed. I was going to have to do this whether I liked it or not, because otherwise we had just flushed a fat chunk of change down the toilet.

<sigh>

So a year ago today I went running after the boys were in bed and was shocked to discover upon returning home that I had run three miles without stopping. I was hot and sweaty, but I didn’t feel like my feet had bricks attached to them. I wasn’t sure if my new shoes were giving me a psychological or physical edge, but I knew that I had kind of enjoyed myself…

Over the past year I haven’t always enjoyed myself. Just yesterday we ran one of our favorite 5K routes and I never really got my legs under me. But I did it. We’ve started, literally, running errands. We run to the bank, we run to the bakery (a very necessary errand…), we run to the drugstore, and when we’re feeling really motivated, we run three miles to the nearest Wegmans and back again. We’ve run to every playground within a 3 mile radius. We’ve run to hiking trails and to the shores of the nearby bay. The boys love the stroller…Owen daily goes out to the garage and climbs in his seat expectantly, even if we’ve already used it that day. We use our runs to calm them on rough mornings—the gentle breeze and smooth pace tends to lull them. Roy and I have had some of our best conversations during runs. We discuss books, politics, religion, family, us. It’s been a consistent time of connection for us.

In the past year I’ve run through crunchy leaves, powdery snow, freshly-cut grass, and the yellow dusting of pollen. I’ve seen my immediate community in a way I never would have if I chose to drive everywhere. We’ve gotten to know the people who work at the bakery and bade ‘good mornings’ to hundreds of neighbors and townsfolk. We’ve scratched our heads repeatedly at the weekly occurrence of someone commenting on the cuteness of the “twins you have in there.” (Seriously, James is twice as big as Owen.)

Kind of like this. Also, guys, podium training is TOMORROW. #fivegoldsforsimone

I want to be completely forthright here and admit that we aren’t ready to enter any half-marathons. Running for us is typically a 30 minutes-a-day venture. We rarely run more than 3 or 4 miles at a time, but that’s enough to trigger all kinds of endorphins and motivation for the rest of the day. In the past year we’ve eaten better, we’ve laughed more, and, let’s be honest, our legs have never looked better. ;)

So, Roy, you were right. Per usual. In the past year I ran by myself maybe a dozen times. Thanks for running with me the other zillion dozen, because I never would have made it a whole year without your urging and companionship.

And here’s to another year of running: may more days this year be a little easier, may James not grow too big for the double stroller, may our touchy ankles stay strong, and may our little family continue to laugh and love as we lope along our streets and trails.

Also, a new pair of running shoes.

Today’s 1%:

 Book 46/50: Born Survivors. Two years ago I read Unbroken, the story of an Olympic runner turned POW turned PSTD survivor. It was an incredibly true story, turned into a movie this past year. This year's Unbroken was Born Survivors. The story of three Jewish women sent to Aschwitz and somehow managed to keep their pregnancies a secret. Their infants, born in a sweatshop, cattle car, and death cart, all survived the horrors of WWII, as did their mothers, and ultimately discovered each other much later in life. It was an INCREDIBLE story. Really hard to read, but so well-written and humbling. 5 stars.

Book 47/50: Positive. A memoir of a young girl born with HIV and her experiences with bullying in the public schools. How dreadful to be mocked and scorned for something entirely not your fault. I was especially moved by Paige's encounter with a fellow teenager who was purposely injected with HIV in a cruel act of revenge. His testimony of forgiveness proved to be a turning point in her own struggles with seeking revenge.