Let's Go Fly A Kite

My pal Brit and her two daughters and one niece joined the punk and me at the park near our house for some good old fashioned March kite flying.

When the rugrats tired of watching their guardians try to keep the kites in the air, we fell back on plan B: the playground.

The punk loves to try to keep up with his three older girlfriends. Usually, when he and I are at the park together, I hold his hand down the small slides and I go with him down the big slide. But this time, he asked me not to embarrass him in front of his lovely ladies.

I've wondered when he would be ready to go down the big slide without his mama. Now I have my answer. He is ready now. I just had to have the courage to let go.

8/2=3

Last Saturday, I completed an 8 mile run. Today, since my man was going to be away for most of the day, I decided to cut my run in half and take the punk out in the jogging stroller (because, really, it was that or no run at all because it's Saturday and treadmills are banned on Saturdays). I shall now explain the difference between an 8 mile run and a 3 mile run. (Yes, half of 8 is 3. I majored in math; don't question me on this.) Please enjoy the accompanying photos of today's run while you read this dissertation.

8: The first mile sucks.

3: The first mile sucks.

8: The runner is very aware of the state of her bowels and the location of the nearest "facility."

3: Eh, not a big deal.

8: When the runner is halfway done, she is 4 freaking miles from home, with no car. Just running shoes and an ipod.

3: When the runner is halfway done, she should probably add another half mile on her way out so she will have completed 4 miles at the end of her run, which sounds a lot better than 3. Three is wussy. But no. Either the runner's upper body has become weaker or the punk has become heavier since our joint run last fall (perhaps it's his 10 lbs. of cold weather gear), and 3 miles will have to do.

8: At the end of the run, the runner must a) visit the facilities, b) drink 7 gallons of water to ward off the migraine demons, d) stretch well, and c) eat immediately. If she does not do all these things, she will feel like she's been hit by a truck about 60 minutes after finishing the run.

3: At the end of the run, the runner can do whatever she wants. Stretching and drinking water are recommended, but not life or death.

8: Even if the runner has completed all the necessary steps above, she will not have the energy to do much else on her Saturday, and will probably have to take an afternoon nap, and then not be able to fall asleep later that night, until she finally resigns herself to counting backwards, slowly, from 500.

3: Even if the runner didn't complete the suggested steps above, she will feel great for the rest of her Saturday because she burned some calories and released some endorphins.

He's Ba-aaaack

Despite my open abhorrence for him, Jack keeps showing up at the window. Here he is, asking if the punk can come out and play.

When I denied play time due to the punk's afternoon nap, he showed up outside the little guy's bedroom window. (How did he jump that high?)

Then, this morning, there he was again, at the kitchen window.

It seems he has something to say.

Hit the road, Jack!

Wascawy Wabbit

There are many things I do not allow in my house or yard. This long list includes doilies, fake flowers in vases, toll painted scarecrows, blow-up Christmas decorations, and...

... plastic garden animals. We found this "darling" treasure in a wild patch of vinca in a neglected corner in our yard, and the punk quickly adopted it as his bosom buddy.

He likes to carry it around, set it on the ground, knock it over, give it hugs, and say "hop, hop, hop" while making jumping motions with his hands. He doesn't say "mama," but he picked up "hop, hop, hop" within minutes. He has recently started saying please ("eeezzzzz") and thank you ("duck-oo"), but does not say "mama." At least he's polite, even while he attempts to break his mother's heart by refusing to utter her name.

But I digress. This woodland creature is not something I intend to keep for very long. If the punk weren't having so much fun with it, I would have picked it up with a long garden fork and buried it in the outside garbage with the diapers and pine needles immediately.

Don't you think it's creepy? I can feel it staring at me wherever I go.

Thanks to my man, I'm going to have nightmares tonight.

Peek-A-Boo!

Just a little something to celebrate Friday.

P.S. Please forgive the punk's squash-covered face. If I can overlook the orange mess to cover those squishy cheeks in kisses, then you can too. Or should I say "squashy" cheeks? Tee hee hee...

P.P.S. Yes, you can roll your eyes now. I would if you had written it.

Indignity and Nail Care

This weekend, Little Sis and I indulged in mani/pedis for her 17th birthday. The first thing the small, busy, Vietnamese man said when we walked in the door is, "Pick your color." So, we headed to the shrine of nail colors, where I chose a blush pink and Little Sis chose a deep purple. As my pedicurist filled my tub, she took a look at the nail color I had chosen for my toes and said, "No. Too light." Apparently, I had chosen poorly. I replaced it with a bright, Easter purple.

Little Sis and I soaked our feet in the warm water and sighed with pleasure. Then, when Sister's pedicurist brought her feet out of the water, I pointed and laughed like a nice older sister. She looked like she was wearing bright pink socks that ended right where the water line had been. It's no secret that we Johnson girls have very pale skin. (Have I mentioned that my foundation is called Pale Ivory? It's true. It's the lightest shade available at the Estee Lauder counter. Seriously.) But perhaps Sister's water was a bit too warm. I laughed even more when the girl on the other side of Little Sis pointed out her pink socks. She could hide her freaky pastiness from no one.

Now finished with our pedicures, we moved over to the manicure stations for our short-lasting-and-indulgent French tips. While my lady was working on my cuticles, she mentioned that she could do my eyebrows for $7. While I appreciated the information, I didn't feel like getting my eyebrows waxed that day; besides, I usually just tweeze the strays. When I declined, she persisted, "But you need [it]!"

Little Sis seemed to be having a grand time with her manicurist. When we walked out together with our purple toes and French fingernails, she told me that her lady had asked her all about us: how far apart we are (12 years), and how old I am. When Rachel answered "28," her lady corrected her. "No! Twenty-two, twenty-three!" I guess if I am paying complete strangers to judge my color choice and eyebrows, they can make it up to me by giving back 6 years of my twenties.

At The Park

Yes, there is still snow in patches on the grass, but it's March for goodness sakes! The month whose mascot is a kite. And kites are meant to be flown in parks. So that's where we went today (sans kite).

The punk has become much more mobile in the last few weeks. He has been walking for months now, but recently, he prefers running and climbing. As you can plainly see, his sweet face has been firmly planted on the ground much too often lately. The yellowish bruise on the forehead is from the bottom tile stair. There is a mostly-healed scrape on the eye socket on the other side from losing his balance when trying to pick up a pine cone and falling, eye-first onto the cement. And the two red scrapes on his nose are fresh today: carpet burns from diving off, first a banana chair, and then his police car toy.

He can now maneuver the stairs to reach the slides (as long as I'm nearby to catch the occasional misstep). He and I had much fun sliding down this double slide, side by side. His belly laughs were worth the price of a wet bum from invisible puddles on the slide.

The punk even took the time to learn about spacial relationships, i.e. which wood chips are too big to fit through the slots.

I think the little man would tell you it was a splendid way to pass a March afternoon.

The Horror! The Horror!

The dirty state of the car was frightening, but the car wash was even scarier.