Sugar high

Last week one day after school our lovely babysitter (and I do mean lovely) took the kids to SuperAmerica after school. They each got to pick out a treat. Theo chose a grab bag of Doritos. He told me later that he had every intention of saving some for me, but he didn't know what happened. He looked in at one point and they were gone. Believe me, I understand. Eli chose one of those slurpee things- Mountain Dew flavored. This is a kid who does not consume any caffiene in day to day life. Rebecca noted that she was not sure if he should have the dew. But he did. And a few hours later, as he was sitting quietly and reading in his favorite comfy chair, I walked by and heard him mutter under his breath, "I think I'm having a sugar high." Then he kept right on quietly reading. I looked real closely to see if there were any indicators of such a sugar high- and sure enough, he might have been turning those pages a little more quickly, and perhaps with a little extra flair. It made me chuckle. Sugar high. Just imagine if Theo had consumed the mountain dew. yikes. But later that night it did become apparent that old Eli was revved up a little higher than usual. He couldn't sleep. He wasn't bouncing off the walls, jumping in bed, or anything like that. Just laying there rather peacefully, but with his eyes wide open, and anytime Jon or I wondered past we'd get a whispered, "Guys. I can't sleep. I'm kind of jittery." Then nothing. But the eyes stayed open til almost midnight, well beyond his usual bedtime. Thankfully the next day showed no signs of a 'sugar low'. He took his short night in stride- but did make a vow to avoid the dew in the future... or atleast consume it a little earlier in the day. I love that his sugar high only caused him to read a bit more quickly.

After dinner bike ride

This past week we had a grab bag of weather- some days were drizzly and awful and others were bright but cold. On one of the bright days Eli asked after dinner if I wanted to go on a bike ride with him. Of course I did. So we bundled up just a bit and hit the road. I convinced him that our bike ride should have a destination, and that destination should be the grocery store so that I could pick up a few necessities. He didn't argue. All the way there he plied me with information about school and friends and such- we had a lovely time. Then we shopped and I loaded up my panniers with the goods. As we were starting out, up the big steep hill back to our house, I asked Eli if he thought he could make it up the hill. He said yes, of course. I said, "Well, you don't have 20 pounds of groceries on your bike..." (I was nervous and already building my case for why I might have to dismount and walk) and he shot back, "Yeah, and I'm not 42 either." Dang. Neither am I!!! 41. And he better remember that. But the guantlet was thrown and there was no way I was going to be able to get off and walk. I had my 41 year old honor to uphold. We both made it. I will not tell who was breathing harder.

That was me....

I was just driving home from the Y through the drizzly gray and I caught out of the corner of my eye a gangly pre-teen jogging down the street- dribbling a basketball. Instantly I flashed back to my own gangly era- back in the heydey of Title 9 when I was a proud member of one of the first all-girl basketball teams in the revered IBA (Irondale Basketball Association). I would come home after school, grab my basketball and head out around the block. Dribbling. I had developed this training regimen all on my own- and I was devoted. I can still remember the gritty feel of the ball when I would first head out in the spring, before the street sweepers had come through to get rid of the leftover sand from the winter. And now, some 30ish years later, it comes to me in a flash of insight as to why I was never a superstar player. The game of basketball does not depend on the well honed skill of rather slow, long distance, straight-line, unchallenged dribbling. This is why I was never so hot at the quick short drive to the basket. But if the game ever evolved to utilize 1/2 mile long courts I would totally dominate. Still today. My only challenger would be the young one I saw out just now on a lonely dribble around the block. She would clearly have a foot up on me if the game was played outdoors on drizzly days- she's clearly an all weather long distance basketball dribbler. Me- I am pretty sure my outings were limited to the sunny days. I hated the feel of a wet basketball. My devotion was only so deep.
Another thing I remember- if I accidentally dribbled off my foot when making the turn on to 17th avenue (turns are hard! I was all about the straight lines)- that ball would roll down the hill for blocks before I caught up to it. I am sure some of the neighbors spent a number of afternoons getting some chuckles at my expense. I did not chuckle at the dribbler just now. I tilted my hat to her and her (seemingly misguided) devotion.

Amish New Year

Last November the Amish Envy Club convened in our kitchen to install the new cork floor. This March I looked real closely and realized it might actually be time to wash it. Love that floor. It is so fabulous at hiding the side effects of poor cleaning habits that when I do sweep I have to really search for the piles of crumbs I have created. I couldn't be happier with the results of that club gathering.
This past Sunday we came together again- this time over at Jason and Shannon's to do a little painting and possible carpet removal. The laughs came early and often (I do think that had something to do with the lack of ventilation in the back room) and the paint looked great. About 2pm Jason and Shannon were debating (while Jon was applying coat 7 to the door he'd been working on all day) if there was time to take on the carpet removal project that afternoon or if they should postpone. I think they were just about to come down on the side of postponing- but an ever-eager Amisher did not get that memo and took the utility knife to the stairs. So out it went. I think that the homeowners were ok with it in the end...
The evening ended with a fabulous meal and many laughs, as usual. Another year's cycle of the club complete. New Amish year on the horizon- excited to get people over to prep our yard for a fabulous gardening season. Great idea Amy. As she says: Franchises available.

Can I get a little woo-hoo?

Eli is not my demonstrative son. He glides through life on a spectacularly even keel. He does not wear his emotions on his sleeve. And this is only partly because he never actually wears sleeves- t-shirts year round for that kid. He doesn't ever seem to be physically hot or cold either. Just fine. Comfortable. Quietly content. So it is pure joy to catch him letting out a little woo-hoo every now and then. This winter it happened out on skies. He'd be striding along next to me, narrating some event in his head or his book or a comic. Then we'd crest a hill and head down, Eli still narrating away, but in the middle of a sentence a quiet little woop would sneak in. Then back to the confident quiet striding forward (with narration- nothing is done without a little narration).
This past Sunday we were treated to the most fabulous March 14 in the history of Minnesota. After a bleary week of grey drizzle the sun popped out and the temps hit the mid-60's. The day before people had been skiing over at Wirth! And here it was suddenly summer. Eli got a little extra sparkle in his eye and asked us to dig out his bike. He then cruised the sidewalk in front of the house while I soaked up the sun in one of our adriondack (sp??) chairs. Our street is flat. Maybe a 1% grade when you come from the north. But the sun, the breeze, the littlest of slopes was enough to ellicit a couple quiet 'woo-hoos' from Eli has he spun around on his bike. Made that already fabulous sun shine even a little more brightly for his old mom. I love that little whoop.

This is progress?

I have started physical therapy on my wrist. Last week when I took off the split and the PT measured my ability to bend it, I maxed out at a 5 degree angle. That's right, I could bend it only 5 degrees from straight. The PT said, "Ok, now bend your wrist forward...." But I already was, with all my might. He looked real closely and found something to measure. He, in his optimistic fashion, pointed out that there was definitely room for progress. I was given a list of exercises and sent off for a week. And after yesterday's recheck I can report a 100% increase in flexibility. Up to a whopping 10 degrees of flexion. The PT was excited. Me, not so much. I have to admit that my expectations were somewhat higher. But I supposed if I can somehow manage 100% increases each week, I will be up to 90 degrees within the month....

I now understand why the surgeon, back in late January, showed me my x-rays, showed me how the screw is entirely encased in bone, showed me how the screw is in no way an impediment to bending the wrist, and made me promise him I would not call him and tell him that I couldn't bend my wrist because the screw must be in the way. He was not content with me just nodding along to his pronouncement. I had to repeat after him, "I understand that the screw is not the problem." I remembered that last week as I was searching through my records for his phone number, about to call and tell him that the screw must have slipped a little, because I couldn't move my wrist. It's like he's done this before or something.

The last ski (again, and again, and again)

A couple weekends ago we met up with some pals for a ski at Lebanon Hills. I was convinced that it would be the last ski of the winter- after all we have been treated to highs near 40 under sunny skies for weeks here and the gigantic potholes on our streets are evidence of serious snow melt. So we got out that day and found the trails in excellent condition. We toodled around for over an hour soaking up the sun, but I couldn't shake a bittersweet notion that this was going to be it. Then I got out again the next day, and a couple times the next week. And then last weekend we met more friends at Lebanon Hills and again soaked up a few hours of sun out on our skies. But there was more ice, and even grass and weeds starting to stick through. And down by the lake there were outright puddles.

And then on Sunday, Jon and Theo were going to head over to Theodore Wirth to go snow tubing (Theo's christmas present to Jon) and I got the idea in my head that maybe I hadn't missed my opportunity to ski from Lake of the Isles out to Wirth this year. I try to do it atleast once a season- but a combination of a broken bone, a wily intestinal virus, and weekend committments had kept me from completing my quest this winter. I quickly talked Eli into joining me- clearly he wasn't quite conceptualizing the distance we were going to have to cover, and I didn't enlighten him. Jon dropped Eli and I off at the Isles channel around 2pm. As he drove off, Eli and I stood by the side of the road with our skies in hand and were nearly drenched by a passing car sending out a wave of water from a huge puddle. Not an auspicious start to a ski. But we crossed the road and picked our way down to the channel. We joined a parade of late season skiers out to Cedar, through the culvert (where a woman skied by us in just a bra and pants- was it that warm?) to Brownie lake, up over the 394 overpass and into the 'quaking bog'. We had to remove our skies to cross Wirth parkway in order to get over into the wildflower garden trails and then again to get on to Wirth lake. But we covered around 10k in the cities, traveling from downtown Minneapolis out to the suburbs, skiing over one highway and under another, with only two quick road crossings. It is fairly amazing. As we skied west, Eli gave me an overview of the upcoming plot twists in the novel he is writing, and then we plotted out bike and canoe trips we are hoping to take as the snow recedes and spring arrives. We reached the Wirth Chalet by 3:30, soaked with sweat, our gloves ditched around the second kilometer and tied to our pants. We were delightfully tired. I think it was probably the last classic ski of the season, but what a way to finish off a fabulous winter of fun on the snow.