Author: Doser3

Technology, How I Love Thee…

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Let me count the ways.

1. You provide me with easy access to my weather 24/7. Yes, I’m an old lady now. I live and die by the Weather Channel, or in the name of the 21st century, the Weather Channel App.

2. You provide me with NFL, every game, and with multiple ways of viewing.

3. You enable me to continue writing my blog. Well, actually, you allow it to be viewed by so many. With out you, technology, there wouldn’t be a blog.

4. You make it easy for me to take pictures at any given point and to edit those pictures to make me look like a real photographer.

5. You allow me to not only make phone calls, but to also check my email or surf the Web while on said calls. How wonderful you are.

6. You make it easier for me to be a female. Since the majority of us seem to be directionally challenged and almost incapable of reading a map, you provide a nice little voice to walk us through our routes. *I said majority not ALL*

7. I can now officially keep track of the distances I run without having to drive the route in order to calculate said distance.

8. I no longer have to actually “talk” to someone when I want to ask a quick question…I can just text. Er, well, I can text those who choose to embrace technology (not my parents). This is a true lifesaver as I really just don’t have the time to sit down and talk anymore.

9. I can pack multiple “books” when travelling and only take up an inch or so in my bag!

And finally, the true reason I really LOVE technology are for moments like tonight, when my husband is not able to be home to enjoy a family dinner with us.

10. FACETIME!!!!! Thanks to this lovely little invention, we are able to have “dinner” with daddy even when he’s not here. A true lifesaver for me since Davey doesn’t eat well and my husband ALWAYS gets him to eat.

dinner with daddy

Gesundheit

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No, I didn’t sneeze and unfortunately, I’m unsure if you sneezed either, plus I’m not German. When you sneeze, I use the good ole “God Bless You”. My husband’s side of the family has German ancestry, but they don’t speak German. I can only assume the term was used in place of “God Bless You” in the name of “political correctness” and that’s the reason Davey has given his first ever imaginary friend the name, “Gesundheit”.

The first we ever heard of this “friend” was the weekend of the UGA/Clemson game. I was down in Athens with friends, getting my much needed R&R while Dave stayed home with the boys. Dave called me mid-morning to ask what I knew about Gesundheit. My response, “isn’t it German for health or bless you or something?” Apparently, it was more than just that.

I listened as Davey ran to the bathroom to potty and yelled for Gesundheit to come along. That’s when I was informed that Gesundheit was the imaginary friend. My husband asked how I felt about this “friend”. I replied, “fine.” I’m not sure what he was looking for.

I don’t recall if I ever had an imaginary friend. My husband claims he never had one. I think it’s adorable and imaginative to have the friend. I find it humorous the name he was given, but what I also find to be comedic is how much Davey puts into his “friendship”.

For example, Davey was quick to tell his daddy to move out of the way because he was standing on Gesundheit. Then he likes to tell Gesundheit “secrets” and of course, there’s the infamous blaming it on Gesundheit. I enjoy listening to his adventures and places he goes with Gesundheit. It’s just a bit bothersome at times when we leave the house and we’ve apparently left Gesundheit behind. When I ask where he is, Davey becomes frustrated that I don’t “see” Gesundheit. How frustrating, indeed.

For the most part, Gesundheit has been one of the easiest additions to our family. He doesn’t cost us anything, but yet for some reason he’s really good at destroying things. I once asked Davey how long Gesundheit would stay with us.

“He’ll be here forever, Mommy!”

Great! I’m ecstatic with the idea of what else Gesundheit can do.

9/11…Another Year

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We all remember where we were when the planes hit the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and the field in Shanksville, Pa. We all spend 9/11 every year thinking back to that day. I was two months into my first “real” job out of college in Charleston, SC. I worked for a country music radio station and my boyfriend did network security for the DOD at SPAWAR in North Charleston. I put him on a plane September 10th to fly across the country to San Diego. I was grateful that his flight was the day before.

At first, we all thought it was an accident, but then the second plane hit and we knew it was never an accident. This was an intentional act of terrorism. I watched news coverage upon news coverage that day. I cried. I became angry. I was sympathetic and I had an intense sense of patriotism to get the SOBs who slaughtered so many innocent people.

Yesterday was a bit different as I decided to take the opportunity to “teach” my son a little about our nation’s history while encouraging his patriotism.

I dressed Davey in his American flag t-shirt for preschool.

“Mama, it’s not fourth of July. Why I wear this?” he asked.

“We’re showing our patriotism for a dark day in our nation’s history,” I replied.

As a matter of fact, I dressed Henry in his USA, red, white, and blue romper and I donned my own red, white, and blue. Off we went, listening to the radio as the newscaster was reporting live from the World Trade Center Memorial. Davey listened as the trumpet played Taps and the bag pipers followed. He told me he like the sound of the bag pipes could I play them again.

A few hours later, I picked him up from school. On our way home, we passed two different fire departments. Each one had their ladder truck parked down by the road with the ladder extended high above and an American flag attached to the end waving in the wind.

“Mama, why all these trucks have flags on them?” Davey asked.

“Because they help us to remember the people who were hurt,” I said.

“Why they hurt?” Davey asked.

“Because bad people always want to hurt us,” I replied.

“Oh no, Mama, we got to stop them,” he said.

Then he asked me to turn around and go back to the last fire truck, so I did. When we arrived, I pulled over so he could look at the flag and I watched my son, my heart swelling with pride as he put his right hand over his heart and said,

“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America. Indivisible under God. Amen.”

It’s the only part he’s managed to learn of the pledge, but it was perfect. He asked me how he did, and I said better than 90% of Americans. And then I thanked him before driving home.

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The Not So Patient Mommy

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I think it’s getting worse, either the older he gets or the older I get, or perhaps just both! Shortly after I made the life changing decision to become a stay at home mom, I truly thought I was developing that virtue that had eluded me my entire life…PATIENCE. For a while, I actually believed that I was turning a new page and becoming the patient person I had always hoped I’d be. Then one day it was no longer just the two of us at home. Henry had come along and I was now forced to find a way to split my time between the two. Not an easy feat, but one I thought I was accomplishing.

Now that Henry has become more mobile (I always envision myself saying that in a British accent, not sure why), he’s started impeding my progress with Davey. This, of course, is infuriating to Davey as he’d truly like to have me all to himself. And since I am a stay at home mom, I believe it is not just my duty, but also my responsibility and obligation to mold my children. I am accountable to their character and integrity, their strengths and weaknesses, their emphatic abilities, and their learning and intelligence. This is mine. It falls squarely on my shoulders.

I do send Davey to preschool, which my husband really refers to as “glorified daycare”, and truly I can’t really argue with him, but I don’t do that in order to wash my hands clean of my responsibilities. Davey goes to preschool, 2 days a week, 3 hours a day, 6 hours a week. It’s a minor amount of time, but one that is vital not just to my sanity, but to his, Henry’s, and really my husband’s.

Sending him to preschool does not alleviate my role as his primary teacher, nurturer, guardian, and confidant. It’s just a little added padding to what I’m already doing with him. Unfortunately, I’m finding it harder and harder to teach Davey anything the older he becomes. He suffers from the horrible Doser/Bruce trifecta of being independent, strong-willed, and hard-headed. It’s becoming virtually impossible for me to teach him anything as he refuses to sit still for more than 3 minutes and listen to me explain something. How can I explain to him how to tell time when he won’t look at the cards or me?

He’s still young, albeit a few weeks from three, but I can’t believe that he’s not capable of learning more than he’s willing to at this point. Problem is how do I teach him that something more, when I have a 9 month old screaming and crying, pulling on my leg, a dog whining because the 9 month old’s crying is driving her bonkers and she won’t go outside because it’s raining, and a nearly 3 year old who tells me he already knows everything? How do I teach in that environment? This is why I never chose a career path as a teacher.

So, while once upon a time, my patience was finally starting to blossom, all it really took was the Terrible Twos and Trying Threes, to really stomp it out of existence. And people wonder why I “torture” myself with training for Triathlons and Marathons. If I didn’t have that outlet, I would literally go insane.

Hip Hip Hooray for Pre-K

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The day was circled in a bright, obnoxious red on my calendar. With each stroke of a passing day, I became more and more excited and more and more relieved. Monday night, I regressed back to my days of preparing for the first day of school. I took Davey’s bag, read and re-read through the handbook, created my list of additional wish list items, and organized my day around the first day of school. I went to bed early, a little excited, but also exhausted. And for the first time, my fitbit recorded I had a 100% sleep efficiency. Coincidental? I think not.

Tuesday morning, I arose early. I showered and dressed before waking the boys. Davey was awake, as usual, but quietly sitting in his bed reading books (as usual). I dressed him, had him help me get Henry ready, and then we trudged off downstairs all the while quizzing him on his phonics and the name of his new teacher.

We arrived at the school to a multitude of parents. Once again, I looked like the single parent as I was the only one chauffeuring my kids in without a husband at my side. Do these other dads not work or do they have such wonderfully, illustrious jobs that they can come and go as they please? Must be nice!

I walked Davey into his classroom and helped him hang his bag. He sat down at the table and began working a puzzle as I debated whether or not I should hang around. He obviously didn’t care what I did, but I wondered, just for a split second, as to how I looked to the other mothers who were kneeling down with their children, tussling their hair and doling out kissed. All I really wanted to do was vacate and much like from the Beatles “Hard Days Night” movie push open the door and scream, “I’m free!” Instead I controlled myself, smiled at his teacher and quietly walked out of the room.

What I should have done is immediately get in my car and leave, but I couldn’t. I was compelled to spy upon this room that had been set aside, a room where coffee and pastries were being served. A room where mothers got together with each other and sobbed about their little babies going to school. A room aptly titled, “Sip and Sob.” I stuck my head in and was shocked at the number of mothers who were consoling each other. Wow! I didn’t understand it and as I was about to turn to leave, I was stopped by a mother coming in who asked how I was holding up. I spouted out a statement I stole from my buddy, Shelley…”They should have a mimosas and muffins room to celebrate my survival being a stay at home mom with this kid.” Then I smiled and walked away.

I picked Davey up 3 hours later and listened to his excitement and adventures. Later that evening I received an email from his teacher. Davey was the only child who didn’t shed any tears and she has a feeling I’m the only mom from his class who didn’t partake in the Sip and Sob room. Go, Davey and Mommy!

Thursday progressed much the same way, but I have discovered a few things this week.

1. I’m possibly the only mother who doesn’t care if my child wears cute designer clothing. I put him in a t-shirt, shorts, and sneakers. Everyone else (BOTH days) were in their Sunday bests.
2. Make sure to arrive at the carline at 12:01, so as to not be the first one in line since the playground is alongside the carline and apparently, recess is the last event of the day. I eventually had to drive off and lose my spot in line because Davey wanted to hang on to the fence and have a conversation with me.
3. My son’s best friends are all girls.
4. I’m probably the only mother not on the PTA.
5. I’m the only mother who still has a baby pooch for a stomach.
6. I must do better at memorizing the names of the other moms especially since they all know mine and Davey’s.
7. I also need to work on my socialize skills and at least PRETEND to care about these other moms so I can develop more BFFs (insert sarcasm)
8. These other moms must have filthy rich husbands, or come from money because they drive the designer cars, wear the designer clothes, and seem to be able to afford plastic surgery.
And finally
9. Any worry or fear about Davey I may have had whether it be intellect, socialization, or attitude can and should be put to bed. My kid is awesome and has this innate knack to adapt to ANYTHING.

He is The New Clint Dempsey

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Last night marked Davey’s first foray into a team sport. He’s not three for another month and technically he’s not supposed to play until his three, but being the aggressive, fighting mother that I am, I fought to get him into the fall soccer league at the Y.

Yesterday started out much like any other day. We ate breakfast, got dressed, and went to the Y for my morning workout. When we pulled into the parking lot, the employees were busy setting up the toddler nets and spraying painting the freshly mowed fields. Davey’s comment, “they’re getting it ready for meeee.” And yes, he did draw out that “me”. Adorable, I know!

Warm Up

After leaving the Y, nothing more was said about soccer. I suppose it was just another thing that flitted out of his mind as he moved onto something else. Me? Not the case. I was excited all day. I practically couldn’t even eat as I watched the clock tick down and I ran through the check list of things I would need to bring. With each passing hour, this thought came into my head, “I’m a soccer mom.” How exciting!

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I’ve looked forward to a day like this for quite some time. I’ve dreamed about the activities Davey would participate in when he got older, whether that be sports, academics, music, or whatever his heart desires. I’ve become lost in thought about how I would (and will) shuffle him through to all of his activities. I haven’t stressed about it, but instead I’ve longed for it. I’m not sure why.

As the hour of his first practice arrived, I put him in his soccer gear, and watched as he ran around the front yard in his cleats proclaiming to me, “mommy, I’m going to be the fastest.” Way to set a goal, my son! I’m proud of you. When my husband pulled into the driveway, the boys and I were already loaded into the truck and ready to go. Was I nervous? For the first time, YES!

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I panicked for a few minutes about how well he would fit in with the other kids. I worried that he wouldn’t pay attention to his coach, or that he would want to sit with me, or that he would become too aggressive. All of my worries were completely unfounded. Not only is my boy a natural athlete (something he gets from his father, not me), but he’s also a true team player.

He scored three goals. The coach commented on his strong leg and how well he runs (dribbles) the ball. Atta boy, Davey! He stretched with the kids, cheered his teammates on when they scored, and even refused to shove a little girl back when she shoved him. I’m a little torn on that as I don’t want him to just stand by idly while other kids beat up on him, but I am proud that something is seeping through with my teachings in that we don’t hit or shove others.

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All in all, last night was a huge success. I’m pleased with Davey and how well he did for an hour. And as a side note…I fought for my baby to get into the fall season and his attention span is better than some of the other three and four year olds and HE’S THE BIGGEST ON HIS TEAM. I shouldn’t be so shocked about that, but I am considering the fact that he’s surrounded by kids a year older than him (some almost 2), and he’s so tall.

Time will tell just how well he’ll do, so until next week we’ll just bask in the glory of the huge accomplishment from last night.

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A Familiar Sadness

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I sat there in stone silence, both boys sleeping upstairs. I had just opened the freezer when the realization of where I was stared right back at me. There were only two left. TWO! Where had they all gone? Why so quickly? I felt a sadness in my heart as I closed the door and slowly walked over to the couch. I couldn’t believe this time had come so soon. I’d secretly longed for it, but still secretly hoped that it would take a while before this day arrived. Some of you won’t understand my pain, but others will.

I’m a huge proponent for nursing. I firmly believe it is the best thing for your baby and if you are capable of doing it, then you SHOULD be doing it. Not only does the milk pack nutrients it in you’d NEVER see from a formula, but it also creates that special bond between mother and child. I only nurse Henry once a day now just because my supply started drying up too quickly, but I relish in that once a day nursing when he’s ALL MINE. No one else is needed like I am and no one else can provide him what I can. I love those 15-20 minutes when he’s nursing and there’s no one else around us. I love the looks I receive, the tender caresses, and then the immediate nuzzles after he’s full. That’s my time and my time alone. Of course, I was spending a certain amount of time freezing milk as well, but those days have quickly dwindled. There are now only 2 bags of milk left and this has made me sad.

It’s not unfamiliar to me. I experienced this same wave of emotions with Davey. At times, I was conflicted. I was eager to get my body back so that I could get back into running (something that was difficult for quite a few months). I was anxious to have those times when my husband could get up with him at night and provide him a bottle. And while I was wishing for all this to occur, I was also hoping to be able to nurse him forever.

Now there’s a finality to seeing the last two bags of frozen milk. Yeah, I can still nurse him, even though it won’t be that much, but there’s no longer that “go to” bag awaiting. Mommy’s usefulness in this arena is slowing fading away and I am sad. I know I’m not the only mother who’s felt this way.

My Husband is Grateful

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And being the good Christian wife I am, I should be happy that he’s grateful, right? Here’s the problem, though, I’m also human and when he said the words, “I’m grateful” today, I took them out of context, and it made me resentful and angry.

Being a stay at home mom is under-rated. I’ve heard some claim it’s over-rated, but really it’s one of the most thankless and at times degrading jobs a woman will ever have. On the plus side, it is also one of the most rewarding and loving jobs. Today, with my Drowning in the Terrible Twos Davey, was not one of the days that I enjoyed. Truthfully, today was one of the days that I not only envied my husband, but I despised him as well. Not very Christian-like of me, I know.

I’ve been so proud of Davey lately. We seemed to have rounded the corner finally with potty training and he’s been using the potty on a regular basis with minimal accidents, but for some reason on Tuesday he’s regressed back to not wanting to potty. It’s making my life miserable. I’ve come so far with him. Should I just put him back in pull ups and let him come to me when he’s ready to start wearing big boy underwear again? Or should I just keep following the path I’m on with him? I don’t want to ruin our progress.

Here’s my conundrum the past few days…Davey will sit on the potty, but he refuses to use it. Instead he holds it in and waits until nap time or bed time when I put on a pull up, then pees and poops at that point. I don’t know what’s changed in the past few days, but something has and it’s really no good for my patience. I’ve tried reasoning with him, which is like reasoning with a terrorist. I’ve tried bribing him, which is like dangling meat in front of a vegetarian. I’ve tried threatening to take away his toys. I’ve tried encouragement, songs, reading books, dancing…you name it, I’ve tried it the past few days, to no avail.

Today, I decided that Davey would sit on the potty until he peed or pooped in it. I took a pull up off of him at 7:30 and 1 cup of milk, tea, 2 cups of water, and 5 hours later, he still didn’t want to pee. He had it in him! I know he did! And I was determined that he was not going to get the better of me and hold it in until nap time and pee in his pull up. No, sir! I know where he’s gotten his strong-willed, stubborn streak from…ME! What he should know is that I’m the master and I will win, or so I continued to tell myself. Now here’s where the “I’m grateful” remark came into play with my husband…

While sitting on the potty, Davey begins a barrage of nasty tones, words, and accusations all directed towards me! ME!?!?!? Not only did he tell me that he didn’t love me, nor did he like me, but he also told me that his Daddy was his favorite, I’m a mean witch, and Daddy is the best. I believe his actually words were, “make daddy come home and you go away forever.” Are you kidding me? Why do I get to deal with all of this abuse? I’m the one that carried him for 9+ months, have a lovely scar from the surgery and a belly that will never be as flat or hips as slim as they once were because of him. I’m the one who suffered through leg cramps, horrible heartburn, sleepless nights, and weeks of recovery pain after having him. I’m the one who gave up my career to stay home with him, to be an active part of his life, to take the responsibility of molding him with my own hands. I’m the one who doesn’t get the luxury of overnight business trips in nice hotels with no screaming kids. I’m the one who deals with getting peed on, vomited on, and even at times pooped on. And yet, I get treated like I’m the wicked witch of the west!

My husband says to me, during my rant, that he’s “grateful” which in turn caused me to unleash a bombardment of angry words at him. I said to him “You’re grateful that you’re seen as the good guy and I’m the bad guy or are you just grateful that you are working AND out of town and don’t have to deal with the unpleasant side of raising our boys?” Was that unfair on my part? Perhaps, but in the heat of the moment I didn’t want to hear his “I’m grateful” comment even if I did cut him off before he finished with “I’m grateful that you’re the one who’s capable of handling our boys and I’m grateful that you’re their mother and I’m grateful that you take care of them.”

Well, I suppose I’m glad his grateful, but for once JUST ONCE, I’d like to be seen as the good guy. I’d like to be seen as the favorite parent (that’s selfish, I know). For once, I’d like to make it through a day without Davey calling me a mean witch. I don’t want my husband to be grateful (well, really I do). What I want is to have my loving, cuddly relationship I had with what was once my sweet boy. I want my cake and eat it too.

Hi, My Name is Mischief and I Approve This Message

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I’ve spent the better part of my blog writing about my first born son, Davey. It’s not unusual once you consider that he is the reason for the start of the blog. This morning, though, I woke up feeling a tad bit guilty that I haven’t really allowed my second born, Henry, to grace the words of my writing. Why is that? Perhaps it’s that he is so young and for the first couple of months he’s more like a blob, a phrase I’ve stolen from Angelina Jolie when she spoke of her first born, Shiloh. I thought she was heartless when she said those words, but having become a mom myself, I understand just how right she was. For the first couple of months, they don’t have much of a personality. They eat, sleep, poop, and cry. That’s it. But those days have long since passed with Henry. The boy will be 8 months old in a couple of weeks and I can’t help but wonder why I haven’t shared more of my adventures with him. Here’s the answer I came up with…I DON’T KNOW.

My Henry is the happiest baby I’ve ever met. He constantly has a smile on his face and doesn’t mind sharing that with the strangers of the world. I compare him a lot to Davey and how he was at that age, which may be a “no no”, but I like to see just how different they really are. He has two teeth, a lot faster than Davey did. He started crawling at 6 months and immediately began standing as well. He has a bottomless pit for a stomach, as I’ve had him on solids for a while now. And he sleeps! He actually puts himself to sleep without being rocked. I have him on the same nap schedule as Davey. So many said it would never happen.

Henry Mischief 2

Here’s the big difference between my two boys and the one thing that makes Henry so exhausting. He’s Mischief with a capital M. This child isn’t happy unless he’s terrorizing Davey, either by tearing apart something that he’s built or not allowing him to watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse in peace. He loves the toilet and dog bowls, things Davey never bothered. He chews on furniture, shoes, and basically anything he can get his hands on, including any part of my body. He was actually trying to chew on my shins the other day.

I suppose the one thing that really sticks out, the one thing that is the most annoying habit of little Henry is his incessant need to try to climb baby gates! I put those gates up for Davey when he was about this age and not once did he ever try to touch the gates, chew them, sniff them, kick them, or climb them. It’s almost as if they were an electric fence of sorts and he never went near them. Henry? All of the above items I listed which Davey NEVER did, Henry does. It’s exhausting.

On the plus side, he’s keeping me on my toes which in turn is keeping me on my weight loss track. I wouldn’t want a docile baby. Where is the fun in that?

Please note the carnage of the Davey’s train tracks in the floor along with the demolition of his pieces of artwork all at the hands of Henry in the picture below. Sigh. My little one man demolition or basically any other pre-toddling 8 month old. Happy Wednesday.

Henry Mischief

You Go, Girl!

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There was an overwhelming sensation that came over me. I wanted to flee. I wanted to say, “screw this” and just walk away. I wanted to vomit. I wanted to do everything except the task that was staring right back at me, the one thing I’d worked hard for over the past few months, the one thing that only a day before I was so excited about. I glanced over at the clock, hearing the seconds tick away even though there were waves of voices all around me. Should I pray? What for? It seemed almost selfish, after all I was the one who gotten myself into this. I was the one who thought it would be a wonderful idea to compete in a triathlon. Now as the minutes faded and I watched the minute hand hit the “12”, all I wanted was for this insipid thing to be over, and just as I thought that I might sneak out the back, I heard the whistle blow and the sound of the first swimmer jumping into the water. It was too late.

I’m guilty of having grand ideas, of seeing wonderful events in the future, things I know I can participate in, but then immediately second-guessing my mental state once the day of arrival is here. I often wonder what I was thinking. I fear that I’ll fail and people will be laughing at me. I fear that I’ll injure myself (physically, mentally, or emotionally) and never recover. I fear that I will be just average, and that’s not what I want.

After almost 20 years of running (not from my fears, although that thought has crossed my mind), I decided to up the ante a bit and compete in my first ever triathlon. I wasn’t completely naïve as to what I had decided to take on. I knew it would be difficult, but I knew I could handle it. The only true worry I had was swimming especially considering that the older I’ve become the more I seem to have a developed a case of claustrophobia. Once my head is under the water, I can’t swim. I panic. I think, “what if I need to breathe and I can’t?” Truly, drowning is my worst way of dying. Don’t confuse my fear of swimming with the fact that I can swim. I’m an average swimmer, not too fast, but thanks to my long body, I can reach the other end of the pool a lot faster than the average swimmer. I can keep myself alive, which is the true point of swimming, at least for me.

Sunday morning, I tossed out those fears even as I stood surrounded by 140+ other women, and conquered any doubt I may have about my ability to complete a triathlon (and NOT be last). It really wasn’t until I completed the bike portion, when I saw the greatest cheering section a girl could ever have, that I knew this wasn’t just a great thing for me, it was also a wonderful and encouraging experience for my boys. I finished the 2.5 mile run with my almost 3 year old screaming, “go, mama, go” as he ran across the finish line with me. And when I thought I had not an ounce of energy still left in me, I was able to pick him while still running and laugh along with him.

Crossing the finish line with Davey!
Crossing the finish line with Davey!

My husband has always been my encouragement with any endeavor I partake. He maintains faith and confidence in me, and tells me how great I’m doing. When I have an “I can’t” moment, he immediately counters it with a slew of “you cans”. I am blessed.

I’ve run a lot of races in my life and my husband has been at 90% of them, waiting for me at the finish line, yelling for me to push myself, but this race was different. This race was the first I’d ever competed in with all three of my boys cheering me on. I felt like a super hero. I truly felt that Davey saw me as Super Mom, and my heart just exploded with the excitement.

My parents never participated in events like this. Athletic events were never really their forte and it’s not something they made the time for. I don’t want that for my boys. I want them to see that Mama is more than just the one who takes care of them, and perhaps seeing me in this arena will encourage them to participate as well.

And while I was sick at my stomach, miserable and unable to sleep the night before my first ever triathlon, I’ve decided to do another one. That’s right. I have a masochistic nature, a desire to torture myself. What can I say? As long as I have that same cheering squad as this past weekend, I’ll be alright. I can conquer anything.

My cheering squad!
My cheering squad!