I’ve been thinking about courage, and how it requires something unique from each and every one of us. The shape of our courage is as unique as the shape of what we fear.

“Um, yeah?” you’re thinking, “Thank you for that REALLY OBVIOUS OBSERVATION.”

The reason I am thinking about this is that my oldest son, who has been living large here in my blog because it has been such a year of firsts and lasts for him, just went to orientation for college yesterday. This is a kid that does not like to order pizza, who dreads the unexpected in a social exchange, and yet he went, and he made it through. This is a kid who plays football and lacrosse with absolutely ruthless abandon, who rides dirt bikes as if he never knew fear. And he freaks himself out on a regular basis with things that go bump in the night, and really hates to talk to people he does not know.

I get that kid right down to his gigantic hobbit-like toes. I passed on the shape of my fear, and the good that comes of this is that I completely, totally understand when he can go from riding at the edge of disaster for hours on bike with enough juice to launch him into orbit, but then be unable to ask the gas station attendant where the bathroom is. He is not SHY. Oh, it is impossible to explain. I only understand so well because I live it.

When I was a girl, I would wake in the middle of the night, frozen with terror. I would be absolutely, completely certain that my bed was surrounded by king cobras - at least six - all raised and hooded, swaying in the faint light from the window, waiting. For me to move, to breathe, for my heart to beat… I would lay there, trembling and sweating, heart thundering, for God knows how long… I think I would eventually just kind of pass out from fear. This happened MANY TIMES. This STILL happens to me, in the dead of night, but usually my terror takes a different shape. That thump downstairs is some psycho, come to kill us all in our beds. That rustle in the woods at the cabin is a mountain lion, or a psycho of the Baldwin variety, come to kill us all in our sleeping bags.

I am not a fearful person, and neither is Cody. We just both have these imaginations that leap from dormant to full-blown Stephen King instantaneously, and in excruciating detail. Gotta be a market for that kind of thing.

Well, I haven’t talked about running in a long time (largely because my sister - my sister- told me that she just skips those entries), but things have changed so much since I last posted. I’ve been running, but my goals have shifted dramatically, to accommodate this whole thing called WORK and LIFE and all that.

So now Tiffany and I are trying to run most nights, but not looking to ramp up past four miles, or to break any land speed records. I am so, so freakin’ SORE!  And I still can not lose those FREAKIN’ EIGHT POUNDS. Makes me want to hurt someone.

On to more interesting things - I updated the “What Are You Reading?” page! Yes, that is way more interesting!

Hey! I was productive today!

Which means that I am posting to my blog when my little ones will be up in about five hours, and letting you know that I have at long last updated the “What are you reading?” page.

Seriously. If you didn’t know better, you would swear I am on speed. Was on speed? I have lost all ability to determine verb tense. Time for bed, loyal reader…

Today is Saturday. My alarm went off at 6:45 a.m., and after that I:

Went for a four mile run with Tiffany.
Drank a glass of water.
Went to the grocery store.
Brought all the groceries in the house and put them away.
Fed the kids.
Persuaded the kids to get dressed and brush their teeth.
Started a load of laundry.
Watered by perennials.
Fed the dog.
Argued with my husband on the phone.
Fixed my breakfast, then ate it while cleaning out email.
Got in the shower, dressed, make-up.
Switched out my laundry.
Made all the beds.
Called a friend to make sure I had a cell number to give Lex, as mine is up north.
Mowed the front yard.
Started digging out a bush in the front yard.
Fixed lunch.
Fed the kids lunch, packed for soccer.
Got the kids out the door to soccer.
Made it to the field, cheered!
Collected money for trophies and coaches gift.
Passed out fliers.
Placated hot and cranky five year old.
Did NOT yell too much “helpful advice” at totally-not-into-soccer-today 7 year old.
Did the tunnel, cheered!
Packed up, left field, stopped for ice cream for strep throat girl.
Got home.
Switched out laundry, took care of stuff from soccer.
Prepped dinner.
Finished wrestling bush out of front yard.
Nursed numerous scratches from said bush.
Took little ones to pool, and home again (”We are only staying ONE HOUR and I mean it!”)
Took last load from dryer upstairs. Will fold later.
Got little ones dressed.
Fed them a snack.
Took care of stuff from pool.
Fed the dog.
Fixed dinner.
Browbeat children into eating dinner.
Measured two pairs of pants for hemming.
Cleared dinner, washed dishes.
Browbeat children into showers.
Balanced checkbook.
Put in movie for babies, browbeat tween into shower.
Hemmed two pairs pants.
Fed the cat.
Put babies to bed.
Scrubbed tub.
Ironed two shirts.
Mixed a drink….
And it is all just too depressing to keep going! I still have three loads of wash to fold, and pics to send to my sister….

Damn. I. Am. Tired.