Running(ish) with Trig-Dog

Lately I've been heading out to run before the Man leaves for work in the morning so I don't have to take the stroller with me (it's incredible how much easier it is to run when you're not lugging 50 pounds worth of kids plus a double stroller that is not a jogging stroller). Unfortunately for me, this means getting up before any other sane person on base is awake. I've been taking Trigs with me for company and so that I don't feel guilty about not taking him walking later in the day (the heat is so ridiculous that getting out at 5 in the morning is really the only way to bearably get outside exercise).

So Trigs and I have been having fun times running together. For the most part. One day we saw an armadillo. That was pretty exciting. And I can always count on him to protect me from the rabid golf-course rabbits. I've discovered though that there are both pros and cons to running with Trigger. I thought I would share. See below list.

Pros:

• I can pat myself on the back for being a good dog owner. I can also rub in the Man's face that the dog he signed the Great Dog-Deal of 2011 for is finally being taken care of properly. And not by the person who signed the Dog-Deal. This gives me unutterable amounts of pleasure and self-congratulation. Somehow the dog still likes him better. Go figure. 
• I have someone to give motivational speeches to while I run. If any of you have ever gone running with my father, you will know this is a family thing. I grew up on the motivational run speech. Frequently, Dad tried to take advantage of the fact that I was too out of breath to respond and would try to brain wash me with politics. He didn't know that my lack of response was from a lack of brain activity, not a lack of breath. When people start talking about politics I go to my happy place where the sound of the ocean surf is loud enough to drown out any talk of government and political parties.
• At the end, Trigs and I can race. This needs no explanation. Racing is fun.

Cons:

• Trigger has the smallest bladder of any dog ever. He has to stop at least three times to pee. One day it was five. I mean, good grief, if you're going to stop, just get it all out at once. It's not like we're running for that long...
• Trigs possesses a rabbit magnet. By which I mean, if there is a rabbit anywhere in his vicinity, he is programmed to chase and incapable of keeping himself from lunging wildly and barking pathetically. This obviously derails my run. One, because it's hard to run one direction when your forty pound dog is trying desperately to go in the other direction. Two, because I then have to stop to deal with the problem, and doggy-discipline is tough when you have no upper body strength. Maybe I should consider doing interval speed training that involves letting Trigs chase down the rabbits while I chase after him.
• Trigger really looks forward to running with me. So much so that every morning now he comes in the room at five a.m. and puts his cold snout on my face even if it's not a run morning and in spite of the fact that we don't leave for a half an hour anyway. It's a bit of a shock to wake up to. Also, the fact that Trigger looks forward to something doesn't make me as happy as you'd think it would because I'm just not a nice person.

At any rate, feel free to weigh in. Should I keep taking Triggy (as Little now calls him) running with me or should I force the mangy mutt to stay home and get fat?

Learn Something New Every Day

And today I learned that taking a 2 year old and a baby to a Chinese buffet by yourself is not the smartest move ever. In all honesty, I was desperate. The closest Chinese restaurant that's actually worth anything is about an hour away, and I needed Chinese food. Needed. So, since I was already driving back from OKC, I thought the boys and I would just take a quick stop in Lawton and eat some Lo Mein and Sesame Chicken. It seemed foolproof. It wasn't.

For future reference, don't do what I did.

First, when I arrived I really needed to pee. Keep that in mind. Then I realized that I couldn't leave the boys to go to the bathroom and we'd already been seated, and I didn't want to lose our table (by taking everything with me to aforementioned bathroom) since it was one of the few tables with a full view of the buffet, which was necessary since I had to leave the boys at the table in order to get our food. That was my second big mistake. You can't really take a two year old and a baby through a buffet line. So after I threatened Little within an inch of his life to keep him from misbehaving while I was getting our food, I proceeded to load our plate while playing the toddler version of Marco-Polo (which involved Little yelling, "Mommy? MOMMY?! Mommy?" and me giving him the sinister I'm-watching-you eyes). Of course once we were finally eating, Little realized he was full on goldfish from the car ride and Tiny started fussing and no amount of waitresses coming by and giving him goo-goo eyes would do, so I got him out of the car seat only to feel the reason he was fussing squishing all over me. Yep. You know what I'm talking about. Poop. Thankfully one of the goo-goo eyed waitresses helped me get Goldfish Marco-Polo, the Poopster, and all their paraphernalia to the bathroom where I de-pooped Tiny, tried to keep a leash on Little who wanted to explore the whole bathroom (including the occupied stalls), and vainly attempted to wipe the yellow stains off of my shirt and jeans. Of course, this process was accompanied by the sound of flushing toilets, which didn't help my bladder at all. But we survived.

And then I got Starbucks. Because we don't have a coffee shop here either, of course. Thankfully, they have a drive-thru; otherwise, I would've been in big trouble because there's no way I was getting the kids out of the car again, and I'm not sure they would've served me in my poopified state. Anyway, lesson learned. Next time I'm kidnapping the Man from work and making him come with me.

I Have Problems

• Yesterday afternoon I discovered that my son had been wearing his shorts backwards all day long. At the commissary. At the dry cleaner. All day. And unfortunately, he's only two so he's not dressing himself yet.
• Littles had a massive dump Monday while we were at the dentist. They didn't have any trash cans available, so, being the incredible mother I am, I wrapped up the diaper so that there was no chance of leakage (I'm very good at this), and tucked it into the side pocket of the diaper bag to be disposed of when we got home. I found it two days later. My diaper bag smells like poop. And I think some of it managed to seep out, so I must not be as incredible as I thought. Disappointment all around.
• This morning my neighbor came out to water his grass before work and discovered me in my backyard flapping my arms and doing a little squat dance while yelling at the dog. After he recovered from his uncontrollable laughter long enough to ask me what in the world I was doing, I explained that I was protecting a baby bird from Trigger. I'd seen the parent birds dive-bombing Trigs and come out to investigate and be a regular boy scout. I managed to save little bird from the Trigs and herd him out of the yard through the fence after I had originally given him a very touching eulogy in the presence of Littles. That poor child is going to have major psychological problems. Incidentally, he now refers to the dog as "Triggy".
• In a glow of wifely service, I took the Man's blues to the dry cleaner. Two hours later he calls and asks me to throw them in the washer. Expecting loud applause, several pats on the back, and most definitely warm gratitude for how awesome I am, I tell him that they're already at the dry cleaner (that's right: you forgot, and I took care of it for you... I know... you don't deserve me...). There's an awkward pause on the other end of the phone and then the fateful words: I need them tomorrow morning. Yeah, well, that's not going to happen considering that "tomorrow" is Thursday and the lady said they wouldn't be done til Friday at 2pm. 

Always fun to make fun of myself. Guess I'll go grab my bluegrass dancing son (he's got a little jig going on--that's what I get for playing Nickel Creek and Alison Kraus during breakfast) and bring on today in style!

Confessions and Calvary Love

I have a confession to make: I'm a book thief. I feel like I've talked about this before on here. It's not that I think people won't notice that their books don't get returned to them. It's not that I forget. It's that I purposefully pilfer books for my own library and then shamelessly justify it to myself with a myriad of excuses. I'm just being honest. My dad once said that taking me to a book store was like taking an alcoholic to a bar. I'd like to say I'm not THAT bad, but I think he's probably right. I don't steal books from bookstores, though, just from unwitting family members and occasionally friends.

Anyway, one of the books I stole from my mother when I graduated from high school was her beat up copy of Amy Carmichael's If. Let me explain: in our house, Amy Carmichael was referred to as "Amy". My mom liked to pretend that "Amy" was a close family friend. Selections from "Amy" were shared and then discussed in depth at the breakfast table at least once a week. "Amy"'s books were placed on the bathroom bookshelf (yes, every family should have a bathroom bookshelf) so that time on the toilet was spent appropriately. "Amy" was our personal family joke, but once I finally matured enough to appreciate the depth of what she was writing about (instead of rolling my eyes and braiding the fringe on our table cloth), I realized there was no way I was heading off to college without at least a couple of her books tucked away in my backpack (the other book was called Rose from Brier and was an unbelievable help as I learned how to deal with consistent vascular migraines and depression). Both books are now parked on my bathroom bookshelf, and I regularly consult them for a few moments of encouragement and challenge.

If is a collection of thoughts on our response to the love of the Lord as exhibited on the cross of Calvary. There's a little introduction and a little conclusion, but most of the ninety page book consists of single statements full of thought-provoking challenge. The one that got me this week was "If by doing some work which the undiscerning consider 'not spiritual work' I can best help others, and I inwardly rebel, thinking it is the spiritual for which I crave, when in truth it is the interesting and exciting, then I know nothing of Calvary love." Ouch. And for the most part, that's my response to the whole book. But I am encouraged to know that as I pursue Christ more, I will begin to gain more of an understanding for the why behind the Cross, and He will continue transforming me into His image.

Hopefully He won't convict me of my book thievery...

Training: Potty and Otherwise.

The Man left for training this week, and Little Man decided that he wanted to train too. The potty kind. Let the record show that I was planning to keep Littles in diapers for a very long time for the obvious reason that I care more about my sanity than the environment. Or our bank account. But since Daddy was potty training (Little's words, not mine), so must Little. Plus, a little birdy had told him that if he could "peepee in the potty" he would get Thomas underpants, and all things Thomas are to be immeasurably coveted.

Little Man gave me a freebie for Tuesday since I had to spend the day running errands and cleaning up the house, which looked like a regular Oklahoma tornado had descended upon it after a 4 day weekend and lots of gear being unpackaged and re-packed by the Man. Then Wednesday we went shopping for Thomas undies and I convinced Little that they needed to be washed before wearing. And I took as long as possible with the laundry (have I mentioned that I really don't want to potty train this child?). But Thursday after breakfast the jig was up. Even though the undies still had to be dried (I told you that I was stalling), he decided that potty training was On like Donkey Kong. So he ran around the house with a t-shirt and a naked butt for an hour while the dryer ran. I closed the blinds so that my neighbor's little girls wouldn't be scarred for life. I had no such luck as Littles kept giggling, "You toot! You toot!" as he rampaged through the house and I imagined poop spraying all over my furniture. Yes, he speaks of himself in the second person. I suppose it's better than the Royal We.

Anyway, once Little Man was bribed by Thomas undies, stickers, and the promise of one episode of Andy Griffith should he make it to the end of the day diaper free, we made some headway. Yes, Andy Griffith. I blame my husband. Of course, I did have to bully him into drinking water or I think he would've held it indefinitely. Then I took the afternoon off. Because I'm lazy and I believe that potty training should be done in extremely small increments of time if having to be done at all.

Today we are back at it, and by back at it I mean that the moment I got on the phone to call the fence guy to come by and check our fence since Trigger met us on the sidewalk after our run this morning and the gate was still locked (for the life of me, I think he vaulted the fence), anyway, at the very moment I am trying to leave a voicemail, Alex looks up at me and says, "Mommy, you peed!" and I see a puddle forming at his feet. Naturally, he managed to get it on Rolly, his favourite stuffed animal, as well as on his James undies and socks. The washing machine is running already. And somehow, when I took his underwear off, he managed to flip the last few drops in my face. No lie. It was lovely. The kid has skills. Side note: boy parts are weird; a girl would never do that.

Anyway, my sister told me to blog about our potty training adventure, and I told her that was never going to happen. I know moms who update their facebook status every time their offspring squeezes out the tiniest drop of pee, and while I think they are incredibly dedicated mothers, I've never wanted to emulate that, but Amanda told me that your lives would not be complete without hearing The Little Man Potty Training Story: Just the Funny Parts. And this was the sign unto me: as soon as I started writing this blog, Alex told me he needed to go potty and was duly pulled out of the bathtub to let a whole stream go into the big person toilet.

Now I just get to wait until those blueberries he ate for breakfast come out. Yay? Until then I'm going to record myself saying, "Littles, do you need to pee? Do you need to poop?" and play it on a five minute loop since I'm already sounding like a broken record.