I find it interesting that one day I can feel so completely motivated that I can't imagine not being completely obsessed with triathlon, my goals, Kona, my own personal, athletic perfection. Then, overnight, that motivation is GONE. I can longer reach it. The push for Kona seems unrealistic and stupid. The need to spend my days squeezing in workouts seems hardly worth the occasional pleasure of succeeding in a race. Pushing so hard I want to puke seems completely asinine. The chant from the movie Meatballs begins to ring in my head, "It just doesn't matter! It just doesn't matter!"
I got up this morning to get in some time on the bike.
Just as I was to begin my son came downstairs with poop all over his little legs and ass. Oh boy. I went upstairs and poop was everywhere. Clearly he had attempted to clean himself up, but hadn't quite succeeded. Yep. This was going to delay the bike start. Blek.
It's been a week like that. I got up the other morning to find that my youngest had cut her own hair and then painted her eyebrows in fluorescent yellow sharpie so that that her hair and eyebrows would match. I screamed when I saw her--the flourescent sharpie was truly scary-- and she burst into tears. It took me forever to convince her it was okay, but that generally it's a bad idea to color your eyebrows with permanent marker and cut your own hair on a whim.
But I digress. I cleaned up the mess, gave Noah a bath, and by then it was too late to start. Jordan and Lara came downstairs and demanded breakfast--as in "Where's my breakfast!" in high pitched squeals. As I poured cereal and milk, Noah dressed himself in maroon, flannel-lined long pants and a green rugby shirt. He threw himself onto the floor in a fit when I told him he needed to change into something else--that he'd swelter at school in that outfit. As I poured myself coffee I began to calculate how I was going to get the workout in later on. How many hours do I have here? or here? Could I stick it in here? And then I noticed that Linus, my ancient pooch, had pissed and shit on the floor in the dining room. Then Lara came in the room, scissors and Barbie in hand. Barbie now has a crew cut. I found the remains of her flaxen locks all over the family room floor.
And then it hit. Who fucking cares. I felt tired. Did it all really matter? Who cares if I don't get that bike workout in?
I care. I do care. I do love this--the training--the racing--the goal setting. All of it.
It's amazing, though, how real life can just drain you sometimes to the point that you're numb to your own passions.
So this morning I didn't get on the bike. And now that my kids are in school for a few hours (preschool, alas, doesn't last more than 2.5 hours at a stretch) I am writing. And then I'm walking Linus. And then I'll get on the bike for the time that's left. And it will be good.
On another totally random note, I just want to share that when you let your kids do things all by themselves, they usually rock.
I have been letting Jordan cook. I hate cooking and she loves it. So she's the chef. I really let her do it all. She turns on the burners, puts things in the oven. She's gotten especially good at pancakes, but she's very good at cake making too. This is the cake she made for Andy's b-day yesterday. You need to know she did everything herself, and she even managed to let her sibs help her. I had no part of the whole thing.
I think I'm a bit of a braggart when it comes to my kids. Sorry. Can't help it. But really my point is that if you totally ignore your kids and let them just do shit--adult shit--like cook, they get really good at it because they had to figure it out on their own.
My friend Mike sent me some awesome pics of Jordan and me in that 5k. Here's one.Her form is really good. Especially compared to mine. Andy has agreed to take me to the track and teach me how to run. He's convinced I have no idea how to run fast. I think he may be right.
Good luck to all my Peeps racing this weekend! That means you, Kim!