See ya, summer!

So I did my triathlon yesterday (holla!), which signaled for us the unofficial end of summer. Good riddance, I'd say. If I could live every day in one of the shoulder seasons, I would never feel sad again. Alas...

The triathlon went well, in that I finished it and did not die. Several times during the event I said to myself, "This was dumb. I am never doing this again." But as soon as I got home I started trolling the internet for next year's event. Today I'm feeling a bit sore and a bit tired, but I'm glad I did it.

Clara is so inspired by me being a triathlete that she informed us that this coming Saturday she'll be competing in her own event. It's a "girls' triathlon," evidently, and it will involve "doing strokes," riding a bike, and dancing. "And you will stand and wait for me and cheer," she told us. So far, her training schedule has been quite rigorous. Earlier this afternoon she told Jeremy and Jonathan to go play in the kids' pool so she could practice her strokes. Jeremy and Jonathan huddled in the corner of Jonathan's room while she "swam" on the carpet. When she was done, she joined them in the kids' pool. I guess she noticed that one time when I was not with them in the kids' pool. At any rate, she is looking to be in top shape for her big race.

While I was gone with my friends at the triathlon (which was in Montana) Jeremy stayed home with Jonathan and Clara and spent a surprisingly ambitious 26 hours with them. On Friday evening he took them to the community center for a fun evening out, then on Saturday, in a fit of bravery I don't think even I would have attempted, he loaded them up for a jaunt to the county fair. He came home several hours later and still had both of the kids, so we'll call that a success. I'm just glad they were able to go at all. Evidently, on the way there Clara kept harping on about wanting to ride the ferris wheel. Jeremy kept telling her she was too short and that she'd have to content herself with the farm animals. When she wouldn't let it go, Jeremy said, "Clara, if you mention the ferris wheel one more time I am turning the car around and going home." Apparently it took her several minutes before she would say even a single word, lest she accidentally mention the forbidden f----s w---l. Fortunately she stayed true and was rewarded later by a spin on the carousel. It's hard being two sometimes. And sometimes it's awesome.



All said, we had a nice summer. Not a single person in our house was in her third trimester of pregnancy, which can't help but make everything seem a bit better. Also, we finally got a pumpkin to start growing in our garden, so Halloween is destined to not be a bust. Now all I really want is a very long fall so we can enjoy my favorite flavor of air (crisp) before the snow starts to fall.

Jeremy's turn to tri

Jeremy did his triathlon relay on Saturday. He and his teammates did an Olympic triathlon, and Jeremy brought them home with a swift 10K (48 minutes!). The man runs like a gazelle.

And now a few shots of the action:

Clara and Jonathan waiting for Jeremy to start running (if you look closely you can spot Jeremy in his sweatband. Awesome look, JB!):



I was also there:

The big bike-to-run tag (Jason could spot Jeremy really easily, on account of his headband):

Starting the run (don't worry--that's not actually his running stride; I caught him coming around a u-turn, and his headband may have thrown him slightly off-balance):

Crossing the finish line, and looking good! (Funny story: an "elite" triathlete who'd finished by the time Jeremy was running (the relays start last) was sitting along the route cheering people on. When Jeremy ran by the guy said, "Keep it up, Headbandy!" I am still laughing just thinking about it. Classic.)


And a nice team shot:

Now that I've written this post, Jeremy is reading it and telling me why he needed to wear a sweatband. His reasons are threefold: 1)they hold his glasses on; 2)they keep the sweat out of his eyes; 3)they are awesome!

Regardless, nice job, JB!

Try a tri!

On Saturday I did the bike leg of a triathlon relay with two friends of mine. I will admit that it was my idea--I can be very rash--and that it was brutal, but it was fun. I think. The main problem was that the race organizers changed the bike course about 36 hours before the race, so instead of a 12.4 mile ride with one steep hill (the rest of the course was mostly smaller rolling hills) I had to ride a 10 mile course that was 5 miles more or less straight uphill and 5 miles more or less straight downhill. Since I'd trained for different terrain, my poor body was not prepared. Nevertheless, I finished--and in less time than I thought I would take. So there you have it.

And to prove how rash I am, this morning I talked my friends into doing another triathlon--this time not as a relay!--just four weeks from now. They're on board, I'm having second thoughts, but I'm strapping on my running shoes this evening for my first training run. And I bought goggles, so clearly I'm committed.

Are you ready to try a tri yourself? Be like me: don't think, just do!

The sound of two hands clapping

This is nothing but an adorable baby post. But what an adorable baby he is! He just learned how to clap, and, as you can see, is absolutely bursting with pride.

Cave people

One of the most vivid memories I have of summertime as a child is how dark everything always was. I grew up in northern California--hardly a sunless place, which is precisely the point. My mom, always keen to conserve energy (and money) wherever possible, worked hard to beat the typically scorching California sun through a careful combination of air circulation, darkness, and occasional mania. The air conditioner, as a result, ran comparatively little, considering that midsummer temperatures often soared past 100.

The process went something like this: open windows and fans in the relative cool of the night brought interior temperatures down to a manageable comfort level. As soon as the sun dared show its ugly mug and start to heat up the house, we'd all be ordered to run around and close the windows and the curtains, and most of the day we would spend in the comfortable darkness of our downstairs family room. After reluctantly running the air conditioner for a few of the hottest afternoon hours, my mom would begin her vigil of periodically opening the front door to determine when the outside air was more pleasant than the inside air. Evidently, once this occurred there was literally no time to waste, which we gathered when my mom's frantic, "Open the house! OPEN THE HOUSE!!" would ring through the air. We kids knew better than to delay our response to the call, so we'd scurry through the house again, this time opening the windows to allow the evening breezes (and a blessed taste of late-day sunshine) inside.

We still tease my mom for her comfort-keeping, cost-cutting obsession with temperature, but I must confess that my apple hasn't fallen far at all from her tree. At present, we live in a city with very mild summers, meaning that relatively few people have air conditioning. Night air is typically quite cool, so this works out fairly well.

Except for when it doesn't.

We are currently in one of those "doesn't" times. The average high temperature in July here is a mere 83 degrees, which sounds so spectacular right now I can scarcely bring myself to think about it. We are currently ending our second week of highs in the mid-nineties, and the forecast shows much of the same for the week ahead, including two days where the forecast high is 98. Ninety-eight degrees and no air conditioning. Perish the thought.

But it's probably not the thought that will perish, but rather just me and my poor sweaty family. We are shoulder season kind of people, and strongly prefer to neither sweat nor shiver too much. There must be a lesson to be learned here (I'll let you know when I discover it). In the meantime, I'll just keep doing my best to make Jonathan and Clara's memories of their childhood summers as dark as my own (though I do try to let them out of the house occasionally, as did my own dear mother). And as soon as the temperature cools down, I'll definitely open the house.

Ten months

Jonathan marked the end of his tenth month on July 6th. For some reason I have not been able to reconcile how fast Jonathan's first year is passing with how slowly Clara's first year passed. Then it hit me: since Clara was a preemie, she and I basically did not leave the house for the first five months of her life. That can make anything drag on a bit.

Jonathan, on the other hand, has been dragged to every corner of hither and yon in the last ten months, which probably explains why he has had so many colds. The two weeks leading up to his ten-month birthday were marked by a general pallor and a whole lot of this:


Other than lots of juicy snot rockets, his tenth month was full of firsts. He learned to sit himself up, crawl, and pull to standing within the space of about three weeks. This has required adjustments for everyone, since before than he was basically just a stationary cupcake of love. Homeboy barely even rolled, even though I liked to pretend to think that he knew how.

Aside from his physical achievements, he also witnessed his first thunderstorm, crawled through is first play tunnel, got tied with yarn to a toy for the first time, and enjoyed his first Independence Day. It's been a big month.

Thirty

Happy Birthday to Jeremy! He's been waiting 30 years to turn 30, so this is a big day for all of us. That's a long time to wait.


Here's a list of thirty things I love about Jeremy, in no particular order:

1. He is a super hard worker.
2. He is pretty good looking.
3. He is curious and genuine--two of the qualities I most admire in people.
4. He loves his children and is an excellent father.
5. He loves me.
6. He wakes up early in the morning, and he's always awake when the kids wake up. He gets them ready for the morning and often doesn't wake me until 6:30! There are times in my life when that would not have felt like sleeping in. This is not one of those times.
7. He loves to set goals and have something to work toward.
8. His every move is guided by an underlying philosophy. Sometimes that's exhausting, but he is a deliberate fellow.
9. He is reflective.


10. He loves to see new places. Few things thrill him like the call of the open road--even with our kids in tow.
11. He has a keen sense of humor and keeps me laughing.
12. He tends to see the most positive options available.
13. He is a very appreciative eater. There are few pleasures in life equal to putting food in front of someone who will truly love it and be grateful for it.
14. He likes to run.
15. He is a diligent student of life and the gospel.
16. He has pure faith.
17. He is extremely good at ironing. Once we went to a little gathering in exquisitely pressed button-down shirts. One of the guys there said to his wife, "You should really learn to iron like Rachel does." Imagine how shocked he was to learn that all those sharp creases were a result of Jeremy's meticulous nature!
18. He thinks hard about everything.
19. He is really good at geography.
20. He mows the lawn, even though he doesn't like to.

21. He is tender-hearted.
22. He is sentimental, in the best sense: He keeps a small collection of rocks on his desk, and it wasn't until we'd been married for quite some time when I finally asked why all those rocks were on his desk. He picked them up one by one and said, "This is the rock I picked up when I prayed to know whether I should ask you to marry me. This is a rock I found on the beach on our honeymoon..." Each rock had a story, and for someone who doesn't feel the need to keep many things, those rocks say a lot about his character and what matters to him.
23. He is affectionate.
24. He loves music.
25. He gets excited about new opportunities.
26. He writes in his journal.
27. He does the laundry--at least our laundry. Apparently, tiny children's clothes aren't really his "thing."
28. He is a great partner.
29. He had the good sense to ask me to marry him.
30. He is my very best friend.


I love you, Jeremy. Happy Birthday!

Art Education

Earlier this week I realized that I have a significant gap in my cultural education: art. I appreciate art, I like art, but I don't feel like I really know much about it. Other than a surface knowledge of major styles and a slightly more in-depth knowledge of modernism, I am a hopeless case.

Once I realized my deficiency, I of course headed straight to the library, where I got this book for myself:


and this book for Clara:


I have yet to read my book, but Jeremy has read Clara's to her several times. Of course, the best part was before the second reading, when Clara said, "Dad, I need to go outside and paint on the ground. Like Jackson Pollock."

Yes, Clara has a deep and abiding ardor for the art of Jackson Pollock. If pressed, she can also point out the Mona Lisa, Picasso, and Van Gogh, and she likes Monet's water lilies. But it's Pollock she likes the most. Perhaps it's his methods:


Any other art or art history aficionados out there? I'd love a good book recommendation--for me. I don't want Clara getting any more ideas just yet.

Heavy

Yesterday I did a little bit of spot carpet cleaning. To expedite the drying process, I stood a box fan near the damp spot and turned it on. A few minutes later I was nursing Jonathan and the fan fell over. Clara was nearby, so I said, "Oh, Clara! Could you please pick up the fan?" Always happy to oblige, she walked over, gave it a tug, and proclaimed it too heavy. I didn't really want to interrupt Jonathan's eating, so I said, "Quick--go ask Daddy if he can come out and pick it up."

Clara loves any excuse to bother Jeremy while he's working, so she opened his door and said:

"Hey, Dad. I need a simple machine! I need a pulley. The fan fell down, and it is too heavy for me!"

Good grief. I have to give credit to this fellow for teaching her everything she knows about science:

How did a frog find my pond?

I had an interesting experience this afternoon. Clara and Jonathan were napping, and I was out pulling weeds (oh, weeds!) and straightening the garage. I don't know if we're alone in this, but somehow we have seven wheeled vehicles (child bikes and strollers) to wheel around our two very small children. Yes, that's right: we have two strollers to every child, and each of our kids can lay claim to one-point-five bicycles (although two of them are loaners and one of them we bought for a quarter at a garage sale, but still. And Jonathan doesn't do much bike riding. Neither does Clara for that matter: "You have to push the pedals, Clara! PUUUSH!").

At any rate, I decided to collapse our double tandem stroller and one of our single strollers to clear up some space in the garage. As I folded up the single stroller, a little frog toy fell out of it. I thought to myself, "Huh. I didn't know Clara had a little frog toy." I reached out to pick it up... And then it hopped into the air.

Now, to give you the most accurate account of what happened next, I have chosen to include the following Q & A:

Question: When the frog hopped into the air, did you scream like a little girl?

Answer: Absolutely. Well, I should qualify that: I don't know if the utterly inhuman noise that came out of my mouth can count as the scream of a little girl, but I certainly expelled some noise.

Question: Did any of that noise take the form of an expletive?

Answer: No. I didn't even think an expletive in my addled mind, although later I kind of wished I had, since I thought it would make for a more interesting post.

Question: Did you bravely scoop the little frog from its hiding place behind the lawn mower and take it to a safe location 100 yards from your home?

Answer: I did not. Instead, I bravely went into the house and said to Jeremy, "I know you're working, but..." He loves it when I begin sentences that way. Nevertheless, he gently scooped the frog into the lid of a garbage can and carried it to the yard of a vacant house in the 'hood. He said he thought the junipers there would give our amphibious visitor the best chance for survival. Then he ruminated for several minutes about how frogs always pee when you pick them up. He showed me the little damp spot on the lid to prove it. It must be true.

Question: Did you have the presence of mind to photograph your intrepid green visitor?

Answer: Unfortunately, I had almost no presence of mind whatsoever. But just so you know, it was about the size of my head. Either that, or it was about the size of a fifty-cent piece and as green as a verdant forest. You pick.

Happy Father's Day!

Just wanted to give a quick shout-out of love and appreciation to this guy...


...who is an excellent and devoted father to these two:



And here's a brief portrait of Jeremy, according to Clara:

How old is Daddy? Two. Babies are two. How old are you? Twenty.

What does Daddy do for work? He writes words.

Does Dad like to make you breakfast? No!! Not in a pot! Just cold, cold, cold, cold cereal.

What do you like to do with Daddy? Run and play!

What's Daddy's favorite color? Brown. I like his brown shirt!

What does Dad like to eat? Foxes. It makes his throat very bad. There's a fox in his mouth. These are my molars. These are called my canines. Shark has two canines like me.


Happy Father's Day, Jeremy!

Flour Power

In times like these, I think it's best to stick it to The Man as much as possible. One of the ways we do this in our family is to make our own bread. Once every week or week and a half I bake three loaves of my mom's bread, which is seriously the most delicious whole wheat bread I have ever had. And periodically I even do something really brave, like make my own bagels. (That particular whim blossomed after I felt like eating bagels then noticed that a package of five bagels costs like $2.00. As if. I could totally make like 12 bagels for literally just pennies! Note: it's time consuming but yummy. And if you have a two-year-old she will be pretty torqued that you have to broil them then boil them then bake them before eating. Just give her a dang bagel already!)

At any rate, the whole bread making process starts out by running several pounds of wheat through my wheat grinder while Clara and Jonathan hide in Clara's room ("It's too loud for ME, Mommy!"). Then I (with the able help of my petite sous-chef) put everything in my Bosch mixer and let the machine do all the work. When the dough is kneaded, Clara nips little tastes while I push the dough into three pans to rise. (More than once our finished bread has had two little finger marks in it from a secret pinch during the rising time. Why does she like to eat dough??) When all is said and done, we are sitting down to thick slices of delicious bread in an hour and a half, start to finish.

Sometimes, though, I have more to contend with than a loaf pincher. If you have ever seen a Bosch during its kneading cycle, you'll know that it tends to rock and roll a bit while it does the good work of saving my biceps from 20 minutes of forced labor. And I learned that while said rocking and rolling is going on you should not leave an open container of freshly ground flour on the edge of the counter while your baby is playing on the floor. If you do, you might end up with a little bit of this:


And a little bit of that:


Oh well. My only consolation--aside from that happy (if goopy) face--was that at least I'd already made the dough! I guess this is what I get for looking at my bread making as sticking it to The Man rather than just feeding my family. Can't it be both?