The Shits

I've been having some odd stomach problems lately. Actually, they've been going on for a few months now, and they crossed the line the other night after I ate half a pound of blueberries and then completed a ten-mile run. Sure, the cramping and moaning could certainly be related to such events, but those who care about me most helped me see a trend that has been present for a while now. So, yesterday I paid a visit to urgent care and collected all of the appropriate "samples." And yes. By "samples" I mean exactly what you are thinking.

Since nothing can be known until next week, I've been trying really hard to not freak myself out with the possibilities and have even managed to avoid Googling my symptoms. I did call just about everyone I know to solicit sympathy, however, and they did not disappoint. Becky is very sorry that I have to go through this crap; Jodi promises to be my side no matter how it all comes out; and my mother, the calm in every storm of my life, promises that even though this is really the shits, I'll get through it.

Lessons Learned Over the Weekend

1) Never play lawn sports. There's nothing worse than being really bad at something that's supposed to be fun;

2) You only have to fall hard three times before realizing why skis come in pairs. That fourth fall is unnecessary and remarkably painful;

3) When sharing a room with someone, really bad gas is pretty much standard; and

4) If you start every day drinking coffee on the dock while dangling your toes in the water, all embarrassments from the previous day simply wash away.

The Training: Week Five

I let my sister talk me into running the Twin Cities Marathon again this year. The last one was in 2003 and I remember it fondly as The Time I Nearly Died. Or so it felt. And so I declared to my father at mile nineteen. My exact words: "I'm fucking dying." The run left me injured in other ways as well, and my right leg can't promise me that it'll actually stick with me through the entire training. I'm open to the possibility that this won't actually happen, but like most of my major life decisions, the damage will likely be done before I turn back. Nine miles already down this week. Twenty-one more to go.

What's the Story?

The morning glories are killing me. They're growing ev-er-y-where. And lately, they've been choking to death the plants I want to keep. In the Northwest, they're called Bindweed and are considered noxious. I know this because I've been lurking on garden chatrooms to try to find out how to kill them. So far, no one seems to have the answer. In fact, some are offended that anyone would attempt to eliminate a plant that others try so hard to grow. Gardeners are a fascinating bunch.

Today, I realized that the interesting thing about my problem is that I don't really want it to go away. When I arrived home from the gym, I looked at my mounds-o-glory, mumbled my usual "fucking weeds," and happily pulled a few more from the ground. You see, I actually enjoy removing my nemesis bit-by-bit from the earth. Should they all disappear one day, I wouldn't know what to do with myself on a quiet evening at the end of June with no papers to grade or lessons to write. So, for now, I'll continue to pluck the horrible creatures from my yard, cursing them joyfully all the way.

The Return

You'd think that I'd get sick of waking up to the likes of these two every morning while visiting my sister in Montana, but quite the opposite is true. Perhaps I'll tape this picture to my nightstand so this image can still be the first thing I see upon waking (albeit a dryer and less animated version).

The Plugs

Becky and I decided to stay in the same hotel room as our parents for cousin Bryce’s wedding under one condition: that we acquire earplugs industrial enough to deaden the sound of dad’s snoring. You know, something similar to what the the airline workers wear when standing directly below a plane.

So in preparation for the trip, dad made meeting this particular challenge his mission and raided the earplug stash at work. Having raised three daughters, he knew well enough to get two of each variety to avoid arguments, and in the end, Beck and I were each able to choose from a selection that looked like this:



When the time came to select a proper plug, Beck went with the Pura-Fit 6800 and I the Max Lite. At bedtime, we settled into our spots, and once we both had our ear gear in place, the conversation went something like this:

Me: Are your earplugs comfortable?

Beck: What?

Me: Com - fort - a - ble.

Beck: Oh. Yeah. What about yours?

Me: What?

Beck: (pointing at her ear) Yours?

Me: Oh. No. I think they’re sticking out too far.

Beck: What?

Me: Too far. Is this too far out of my ear?

Beck: Yeah. You should try this kind.

Me: What?

You can probably read the pattern here. It all ended in fits of laughter that woke our already sleeping father, who, should he have wanted them, still had ten pairs of earplugs to choose from.

Bittersweet

Today was the last day with the kiddos, and six hours after their departure, I finally feel pretty sad. I imagine that in no other job will a thirteen-year-old girl tell me that I rock and rule and am her best friend when her other friends aren't around. The day was full of other such well-wishes, I'll miss yous, and promises to visit next year too.

What the kids don't know yet, is that I won't be back next year. I didn't want to tell them because, even though I wouldn't be their teacher anyway, to these kids it feels a little like someone is leaving them, like someone is giving up. And if I'm being honest right now, it feels a little bit like I am. While I know that there is no bigger or better thing than teaching these kids that I could ever move onto, I know too, that it's time to challenge myself elsewhere, to see what I can accomplish. For me.

I don't think kids like Sarah or Thanh will understand that this fall when they return to my room ready to show me how much they've grown over the summer and to tell me about their adventures. And the thought of not being there to see and hear them has me pretty bummed out. Yet, as cheesy as it may sound, I have to trust that they took something of me with them that they won't forget, even if I'm not standing in room 213 awaiting their return. Just as I am taking something of them with me.

Priceless

Some would argue that it's a bit juvenile to get together with a group of adults to play board games. Below is just one example of why I beg to differ.

Game prompt: Gifts you would never give to a nun.

Game answer that will be relived in every subsequent "Game Night" for the rest of our lives: Herpes