Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Ice Cream Trumps Running.

Hadley recently came home with a form to sign up for the middle-school cross country team. I swiftly threw it in the trash. 

Hadley will not walk across the hall to throw her dirty underwear in the clothes hamper, so I think cross country running might be a bit of a stretch. I've watched her attempt to throw something in the trashcan, miss, and then decide she doesn't want to bend down and pick it up so she keeps on walking. I've seen Hadley have her sister, Cameron, put socks on her, because Hadley didn't want to bend over.

Running is everything Hadley hates. It requires effort. It's outside. It will make her sweat. 

Before I knew better, I once signed Hadley up to run in a child's "just for fun" run. At the time, again, before I knew better, I was really into running and wanted to share the joy with my daughter. Clearly I was suffering from an endorphin over-dose because running is horrible. But I put the poor kid at the starting line, told her to run when the gun went off.  I was waiting on the sidelines, maybe just an 1/8th of a mile into the course, when I saw her run around the bend. She looked terrified. She looked like she was being chased by a serial killer. She made eye-contact with me, glared, ran swiftly under the rope and abandoned the race. 

"What are you doing?" I asked her. "You're in the middle of a race! Get back out there!"

"It's horrible mom!" she said. "It's hot. I can't breathe. I might be having a heat stroke."

"Hadley, you have literally been running for two minutes. You haven't had time for a heat stroke! Plus it's only 75 degrees. When you have a heat stroke, you can quit, but for now, get back out there!!" 

"Nope," she said. "Not doing it. You can't make me and I'm done."

Well, the girl is decisive. 

We left & went to Dairy Queen. She needed to cool down from her heat stroke. Ice cream trumps running. 

Yet I was not giving up on her. Last year Dubois County introduced Girls on the Run. Girls on the Run is a program that teaches girls about self-confidence, supporting each other, goal-setting and more through running.  Well, Girls on the Run, let me introduce you to Hadley Rumbach.

Hadley participated in the program and didn't hate it. That is a rave review from Hadley Rumbach. I love my tiny hater. She's all tightly-wound and guarded, but when she opens up, the love is mega-big. Her mega-big love would not be opened up for Girls on the Run. Perhaps Hadley could be the founder of Girls at the Diary Queen, where she promotes and encourages girls to give up and eat their feelings.

The culmination of the Girls on the Run program is a celebratory 5K. This is not competitive. This is about "girl-power." Hadley wanted nothing to do with girl power. The 5K intimidated her to her core. I get it. Staring down the barrel of 3 miles, can look pretty dangerous. Nothing dangerous about the Dairy Queen except the calories. However, she trained throughout the program for the 5k and she was prepared to run it.

The day of the race, I stood with her at the starting line. I had agreed to run along side her as her running buddy. I was happy to have the job. I figured, if I was beside her, she couldn't duck out of the race. 

When the gun went off, my tightly-wound Hadley exploded. She began sprinting as quick as her legs could carry her - in the opposite direction. 

She didn't even look back.

"Where are you going?!?!" I yelled after her. "We're supposed to be going the other way!!"

"I know," she yelled back over her shoulder while running at full speed. "I'm too scared to do it!"

"Buy you are doing it!!! You're doing it in the wrong direction!" I screamed. "Turn around."

She stopped running and I caught up with her. I'm not sure if I was out of breath or had no words, but we just stood there.

Then without speaking, we took off, together, in the right direction. We caught up with the group and finished the race.

There has been no running in the Rumbach household since that day. We had to press the pause button on the running theatrics. 

Hadley then decided to press play.

"Mom, where's my cross country sign up sheet?" she asked. "I need you to hand that in."

Oink. Oink. Did pigs just fly?

"What?!?!?" I asked. "You want to run? On purpose? I threw that paper in the trash"

"Mom!!" she said. "Why would you do that? Why would you think I wouldn't like running? You didn't even ask me! God!"

It must be really tough for Hadley to have such a stupid mother.

So, I dug through a weeks worth of garbage, dusted off the form. And signed Hadley up for the Jasper Middle School Cross Country Team. Perhaps out of a trash can on Gregory Lane will rise the greatest cross country runner the school has ever seen.

Whatever happens, however this season progresses, I do know for certain that she won't take the easy way, she will not make it easy on herself - or me.

She'll get side-tracked, side-lined and might even stop for a snack at the Dairy Queen, but she'll get there and the path she takes will be one that is all her own. 

Thursday, January 28, 2016

The World's Largest Gummy Bear

My daughter Cameron turned 9 on Christmas Eve. 

A Christmas Eve birthday means that she is showered with presents for two straight days. She loves every gift she receives, but there is no gift that anyone could give Cameron that would thrill her more than cold hard cash. Skip the toy aisle, skip the craft kits - put some dollar bills in this kid's hands and she lights up like a Christmas tree.

I have no problem with my children receiving money as presents.  I welcome the opportunity to raise smart, thrifty consumers: I have my work cut out for me with Cameron.

I think she might be allergic to money. As soon as it's placed in her tiny hands she starts itching.  And this is no ordinary itch. This itch is relentless, unforgiving, painful - probably like herpes or crabs. My child receives money and starts behaving like she has an std or a drug addict.

"When can we go to store?"

"Will you take me to the store?"

"Are you leaving to go to the store?"

"I need to buy a new shirt."

"I need to buy a new bow."

"Nevermind, I need to buy candy."

"When can we go to the store?"

"I think I want to buy a swimming pool - and then I want to buy a narwal to put in it. It is the unicorn of the sea, you know."

These phases are stuck in her brain on repeat. She says nothing else. She talks of nothing else until every dime is spent. When she was given $30 by her Great Grandma for Christmas, I was happy for her, but then braced myself for the onslaught of requests from Cameron. I knew she'd come at me - so she could spend! spend! spend!

And she did. 

This time, she was after the World's Largest Gummy Bear. Where does one get the world's largest gummy bear? Where else?

According to Amazon, the World's Largest Gummy Bear weighs 5 lbs and is 10 inches tall. It is 1000 times the size of a typical gummy bear. It contains approximately 1 million grams of sugar and enough dyes to cause instant autism. However, it is gluten free.

The world's largest gummy bear does not come cheap. Price tag? $30.00. Yes, $30 for a gummy bear.

Cameron did not see this as a problem but as a sign.

"Mom, I have exactly $30 so I am supposed to buy it."

I tried to reason with her that a lot of other things also cost $30, but she would hear none of that nonsense.

I offered Cameron many reasons as to why the gummy bear would be a bad purchase: it was unhealthy, unnecessary, and over-priced. But she heard nothing I said - perhaps she had tiny gummy bears stuck in her ears.

I suggested reasonable alternatives:

"Why don't you buy a few bags of gummy bears and save the rest of your money?"

"Why don't you buy that small gummy bear on a stick we saw at Wal-Mart? That looked good."

"Why don't you buy the World's Largest Gummy Worm? It's cheaper."

"Why don't you just set your money on fire?"

No. No. No and No.

I then got sneaky. I took her to Wal-Mart and suggested she bring her money in case she saw anything she might like. Though we were "officially" looking for a birthday present for Cameron's friend, I was hoping that if I took her up and down the toy aisles, she might see something else she wanted and cave. Nope. 

I realized then that not only was fighting against the World's Largest Gummy Bear, I was also fighting with the World's Most Stubborn Child.

Cameron checking out the toys at Wal-Mart. She's not taking the bait. The bread in her hand? That's a day-old loaf of French Bread that she's buying for a dollar. She says she needs it in case she goes to France?
Finally, I just said no. No to the World's Largest Gummy Bear and no the the World's Most Stubborn Child. It was ridiculous, expensive, and just plain unhealthy. I told her I didn't want to hear about it anymore, so, really, what choice did she have but to write me a letter?

It read:

Dear Abbie,

I think I have the right to spend my money as I chose. I'm more than half way to adult hood. Just cause I'm a kid doesn't mean I don't know all the things that could go wrong. I try to be mostly positive on the gummy bear. I don't care if I spend all my money! I'm doing this for all the kids that have been put down by there parents. I'm doing this for america! Please please say yes for america!


I realized then I couldn't infringe upon her right to gummy bears. So I said yes. I said yes to the World's Largest Gummy Bear. Yes to Cameron and yes to America.  

The World's Largest Gummy Bear arrived on our doorstep. Cameron ripped into the package and started in on its ear. The thing was so damn chewy she couldn't break through it - she started gnawing and shaking her head back and forth like a mad dog with a toy. Great - the gummy bear gave her rabies. I had suspected this might happen.

She took the gummy bear and hid it in her room. I have no idea where it is. This is for the gummy bear's own good.  

Though I hate the gummy bear, I've decided not to take him for granted. In a few years, she'll probably be hiding cigarettes and her boyfriend in her room and I'll wish for World's Largest Gummy Bear to be my World's Largest Problem. 

God bless Cameron. God bless the gummy bear and God bless America.


Saturday, November 7, 2015

Surgery or Bust.

My body, or more specifically, a part of my digestive system, has decided to give up. Thanks a lot gallbladder - you fucking wimp. 

It has been pushed to its limits and has just decided to quit on me. Perfect. Quitting body parts makes me feel about a hundred year old.

I understand, gallbladder, I do. The working conditions have not been great. I fed you - a lot, maybe too much. But honestly, have you just discounted every vegetable I’ve ever thrown your way? Do all those salads count for nothing??  The alcohol - yeah, you should probably just be thanking me for that party but no, you’ve decided to stab me instead. And now you’re quitting, shutting down operations. Which would be fine with me, as I hear you’re not that essential anyways, however, your exit strategy sucks. 

I do not want to be cut open, but I have been advised that I either have the surgery or explode. 

“Don’t worry!” they say. “It’s laparoscopic!”

Laparoscopic. I did not understood what this word meant. I thought it meant they would just bust it up with lasers or something. Um no. It just means smaller incisions, but there will still be incisions all the same. Can’t they just suck it out through my nose or something? 

Damn you gallbladder and all of your fits. I thought it was just gas pain. 

Every so often, a horrible pain would creep into my abdomen and spread around to my back. I handled it by writhing around on the floor while the children stomped over me asking me to make them food and Justin gave his only advice, “Abbie, you just need to fart!”

Great advice Justin, except you can’t fart out your gallbladder.

So the gallbladder must go. There is no more hustle in its bile making game. Surgery will soon be scheduled.

Laparoscopic or not, the surgery sounds horrible. Three incisions are made, then in order to reach the gallbladder, they will inflate my abdomen with air. Sounds like a party. Except I’ll be the balloon. And I’ll be passed out. 

The recovery worries me more than the surgery. Unlike my gallbladder, I am essential to operations. I don’t have time to be down. When you see (or smell) my family in dirty clothes you’ll know I’ve gone under. Don’t get me wrong, Justin’s great and he’s even recently learned how to do a ponytail, but he has no idea how to do a load of laundry. 

Note to self: Buy family extra undies before operation. 

Extra note to self: Wear clean undies for operation. 

It is my understanding that if the operation goes well, I could be sent home the same day and I can “recover” at home. That - is - funny. There could blood pouring out of my abdomen and the children would still expect me to find their shoes, help with homework and drive them around. 

Maybe I should just quit. My gallbladder did. Thirty-six years and it’s done. Retired to gallbladder beach or wherever old gallbladders go. Perhaps I’ll put it in a jar and take it home - like a favor from the big surgery party. Who knows, maybe my appendix will be next? I can then start collecting my internal organs like some crazed serial killer. 

I can set them out & threaten the kids.

“Kids, you are stressing me out! You see those internal organs over there? Do you want me to lose another one?”  

“Jack, you better stop that or I’ll sit you in time out next to the gall bladder.”  

Gallbladder, you may soon be gone. But I’ll keep you in a jar, use you to threaten my kids and make sure that you are never forgotten, even if you are a wimp. 

Friday, August 14, 2015

Finders Keepers?

I balance my checkbook and pay the bills weekly. Usually it is with sweat on my brow, that I crunch the numbers and hope that this isn’t the week where I’ve spent too much and finally taken us under.

With school registration fees, back-to-school shopping, gymnastics fees (this list could go on & on) my check book has been seeing a lot of action lately. So I’ve been looking for small ways to save a little money.

After cleaning up the summer scum that the children had left behind, I was out of cleaning supplies and because I’m being budget conscience, I headed to a discount shopping center where I found multi-purpose spray cleaner, bleach, toilet bowl cleaner, and furniture polish (because maybe I’ll do that??) all for $1 each. My budget was smiling.

I was in the checkout line when I saw it. There on the floor was an envelope. I picked it up. Inside? $350.

Instantly a little angel and a little devil popped up on my shoulder and went to battle.

Devil: Yay! This must be gift from God. This is his way of helping you out!

Angel: You know better than this. This is not your money. Someone worked hard for this money.

Devil: You don’t know that! Someone could have sold drugs to children for this money. Your luck? They probably sold it to your kids! Keep the money.

Angel: You can’t keep it!

Devil: Finders keepers!

Angel: Do unto others!

Ugh. My conscience was fighting worse than my kids. I was irritating myself. I had to shut it down.

I decided I should take the money to the police station. Then I panicked.

What if there were security cameras in the store? What if they saw me leaving with the money and instantly plastered my picture on social media? I could become a cyber-bullying victim: declared guilty in the court of public opinion before I had the opportunity to explain I had taken it to the police.

I handed over the money to an employee who said she would put it in the safe until it was claimed. I’m hopeful that this occurred, and I’m hopeful that the money is reunited with its owner. I’m sure whoever it is is probably on a budget and is missing it more than I could ever need it.

It’s such a shitty feeling to lose money. Once, I lost $100 at a mini-golf course/arcade. I was in middle school and decided to take my entire life savings with me to a putt putt place because I was an idiot. What the hell was I going to buy? $100 worth of slushies and nachos? I guess that was always a possibility….

I never found that money. I’m still pissed about it. I’m pissed at myself and whoever who found and kept it. And I'm super pissed I didn't get my slushie and nachos. I suffered through 9 holes of putt putt hell for nothing. I hate putt putt. I had gone for the concessions.

I left the store and headed home with my cleaning supplies and more importantly a clean conscience. All budgets were working and perfectly balanced.