in the home stretch

>study in time flying: Audrey 6 mos vs. Audrey 3 yrs.

I realized mid-email tonight that 3/4 of this year is over. Gone, done, past, bye-bye. I took my daughter out tonight on a girl-date with a few of our girlfriends, and watched Audrey acting like a little girl. She's just not a baby anymore. She insisted on sitting in a highchair at the ice cream parlor for some reason, and spilled some of her lime-green ice cream on the floor, but she's not a baby any more. At least I could still read her stories tonight and tuck her in bed and know she'd be asleep in a few minutes. My son Jude is getting so big he insists on reading stories to me or worse, just to himself, and climbs into his bunkbed and tries not to sleep for the next hour in case we watch TV.

Today I also visited my grandma on our weekly trek to her care home. My grandfather passed away when Jude was a month old, and I don't think any of us thought she'd survive this long. She turns 94 this December, and has Alzheimer's disease, diabetes, and slowly advancing kidney failure. She had a bandage on from trying to punch one of the caregivers last weekend - my kind, sweet-tempered, wouldn't-say-boo-to-anyone Grandma! - and I just listened to her try to remember the right sequence of words for saying grace before lunch, and watched her doze off while we worked a puzzle, and couldn't help laughing with her when she shook with laughter at Audrey making silly kissy faces during lunch. She is not the Grandma I used to know - the one that created a thriving vegetable garden from the sandy Yuma soil in their backyard, and used to fry up cornmeal-battered catfish like nobody's business. But I also never know when she may be gone forever, so for the memories, and the hope that she is comforted even on days she doesn't seem to remember us, and for my kids to know what it's like to love someone just because, and a hope that someone will visit me if ever I am in such a position, we keep going. And the weeks go by.

Yesterday I noticed my friend Sylvia has been secretly expanding with her unborn baby - number three, due next February. I forget she is pregnant sometimes, with this baby. I think she forgets she is pregnant, sometimes. Poor third babies, I think. At least Sylvia is one of those intentional moms that saves cute artwork and takes pictures and writes down the mile-markers of baby's first year.

Another marker of time passing. Victor turns 41 this weekend. No birthday bash this year (sorry, sweetie, last year was the big one!), but maybe a new gas grill for the backyard if he's lucky.

Lastly, I have two weeks left to my marathon in St. George, UT. October 4, the big day, draws nigh. The website (http://www.stgeorgemarathon.com/, of course) lists 16 days, 8hours, 33min and counting. Yikes! Actually, I feel very physically ready for the marathon - long runs, speedwork, weights, and the half marathon 2 weeks ago all indicate a good race. (And now I finally get to taper!) But I feel not at all ready for the camping trip in Zion National Park to follow, which requires more logisticial preparation of grocery shopping, gear-checking, vehicle tuning, and packing. I hope we can fit everything in the truck. Nissan Pathfinders are not the roomiest of SUV's, especially with 2 kids and their bulky carseats taking up the back seat. And all their books, and their latest favorite toys, and Blankie and "Robey" and Bear (of course!), and you get the picture, I guess. Then there's Victor's fishing gear. I'm hoping he's not planning to bring his flyfishing float tube, for instance.

All of these updates simply to observe that time sure flies, whether you have fun or not. I just want to be present enough in the moment to notice the little things - like my daughter's shy smile when she whispers which dress she wants to wear "so everyone will know I am a princess;" and my Grandma shaking with laughter till the tears run down from her reddened eyes onto lined cheeks; and my husband's attempt to be nonchalant when he tells me what he wants for his birthday "if anyone asks;" and the seconds ticking away on the marathon website, inviting me to watch the moments pass. Please, God, let me not miss these things in my anxiety over the past I can't change and my hopes for the uncertain future.

white girls can dance...at least once in a while

Live, love, dance. That's the title on the journal I'm currently using. I do the first two pretty well. I venture the last activity about once or twice a decade. Really, I have no rhythm, and very little constructive experience, so when I do, it tends to be an awkward and self-conscious act.

So I was at work Thursday night, finishing up a very long day. Started at 6:45am. Groggy from late night beforehand, I then developed a stiff neck in the shower. Waved my husband off at 8:30am so he can spend 3 days up in the cool pines "working" at my parent's cabin. Spent 3 hours on a playdate through lunchtime. Booted sleepy Jude and Audrey to rooms for early nap and balanced 3 checkbooks and 3 budgets (1 home, 2 biz). Ran aforementioned kids to my kind friend who agreed to watch them, and arrived 10 minutes late to work only to find my new supervisor, whom I hadn't met until that moment, standing at the gym desk. Fortunately she wasn't tapping her foot. Spent next several hours chatting it up with her and various gym patrons (I know, this is work??), led a killer abs class, and realized at 7:30pm as I waved the last lingering patrons out that I had 30 minutes to fit in my own weight workout before closing. I usually take an hour. At least I'd already done abs. I rattled through a super-fast version of my usual session and went to shut off the sound system. We keep the radio playing all day at the gym, and I tune it out after a while. But suddenly one of my favorite top-10 songs comes on, and I pause. I turn up the volume. And then I start dancing.

Now, if someone else is writing this, I start to think at this point, Whoa, she's lost it. She's definitely lost ME. This is one goofy chick. Do people really act this silly? Normally I don't. I like to mess around with my kids, but I don't dance, and I certainly don't dance in an empty gym after closing time. Well, I can't say that any more. I don't know if it was the headiness of having accomplished a difficult day without cracking, or the fun of flouting my usual workout routine for something new and shorter, or just the attraction of the beat of the song itself. But I couldn't have stopped if I tried. And why try? What was another couple minutes. I gyrated and swung my arms and I would have pirouetted if I knew what that was supposed to look like. And when the song finished, I shut it off before the station could intercede with the next raucous advertisement or less-loved song. I suspect I was grinning as I grabbed my stuff and headed out the door to my car. Hey, at least now I can write in my journal that I do live, love, AND dance. At least once in a while.

But get this: that's not the end of the story! I get home to my two wide-awake kids and proceed to put them to bed. Our tradition after the teethbrushing and pajama stage consists of prayers and a psalm, sung acapella with the traditional psalms-for-singing psalter that I grew up with. They love this part. Jude prefers the maudlin 22A, whereas Audrey likes the grand finale, 150B. That night, I picked one I've particularly liked since childhood, Psalm 54B. You Reformed Presbyterians out there know this one well; the beat is catchy. So my five-year-old son Jude climbs down the bunkbed ladder while I'm singing, eyes me to make sure I'm not about to toss him back in bed, and starts dancing. I have to dance to this one, he explains after the first verse. This is not part of the bedtime routine, but I can't blame the boy. I'm about to join him. He hops about, adding that he's dancing the Peter Pan Indian Dance. He's pretty good. So naturally 3-year-old Audrey can't be left out, she slides out of the bottom bunk and she starts in. She has no rhythm yet, but she's swaying all over the place, tossing her hair and arms with abandon. Let's just say that despite the fact it's way past their bedtime by now, I only wish there were more verses to that psalm. Maybe, just maybe, I should dance a little more often.