Life on a treadmill

Lately the boys have both been mildly obsessed with fitness.  While sitting in a waiting room, Little Dog picked up a copy of Men's Health and told me he wanted to look like one of the guys photographed shirtless to show off his bulging muscles.  "I want to be a muscle man.  I'm going to need some weights," he told me.  And this has been mentioned several times since.  Big Dog has been similarly interested in hitting the gym and getting in his exercise as part of a new fitness points system his gym teacher introduced.  It is all kind of amusing, and I hope that if they express this interest now they'll be better at establishing more lasting fitness practices than I have as grew up.  Setting new healthier lifestyle practices gets a lot harder as you get older.  Or so I have discovered.

See, recently I've been trying to get myself on a better track.  While I was on sabbatical this fall, I doing Pilates at a local studio.  It has become an obsession.  At the same time, I reintroduced running to my routine.  I've made several attempts to get back into running over the past year, but have never been 100% successful.  The thing is that I don't like to run outside.  I prefer a treadmill.  And if I restrict myself to a treadmill, I have to find time to hit the gym.  That isn't quite as easy as it should be.  If I try to use the gym at work, I have to shower and get dressed before returning to work, and that paired with my busy meeting schedule and the fact that some of my co-workers don't have any issues with scheduling meetings right over the traditional lunch hour makes it pretty easy to put off.  If I try to use the treadmills at the YMCA, I have to go when the kids can go the the childcare area and depending on the mood of my more tempestuous younger son, that doesn't always work out.  It also means that we are limited to weekends since trying to get to and from the gym after work makes for a crazy day.  And let's not forget that I don't actually love running.  It is just an efficient method to get some exercise.  I don't get the runner's high and I don't run for the pure joy of running, so if it isn't convenient, I don't find myself properly motivated to make it happen. 

The solution was easy.  Get a treadmill at home.  If it is right here more or less staring at me, I'll be more likely to use it.  And it has been true more or less.  What I didn't bank on was the boys catching treadmill fever.  Last weekend as the boys watched TV, I slipped downstairs for a run.  I had almost finished when Little Dog came into the bedroom.  
"Can I have a turn?" he asked.
"Sure, just let me finish," I said, expecting that he'd give it a minute, get bored and that would be that.

I was wrong.  He got on and ran. And ran and ran.  He'd occasionally switch from running into a glee-filled skipping and hopping pattern.  He worked up a little sweat and when he finally decided to stop, I told him he could Big Dog and let him have a turn if he wanted.  And boy did he ever. 
Big Dog chose a more traditional running gait, but he kept demanding that I push up the speed.  Then it became competitive.  They wanted to be the faster runner of the two.  They wanted to run longer than the other.  They were loving it.

Last night after listening to the boys beat each other senseless as brothers often do, Mr. Dog suggested they go for a run on the treadmill.  They were giddy.  Again, the joyful running and brotherly competition kept they busy and tired them right out.  They may have the goal of getting "super fit" and having "lots and lots of muscles" but my goal is simply to tire them out.  If they happen to get all muscled up in the process, I'll count that as a happy byproduct.  And maybe a tiny bit of their excited running enthusiasm can rub off on their old mom.

Big Brother

And by Big Brother, I don't mean the kind that watches over you, just the kind that tortures you if you happen to be the younger child.  In our house, that's Big Dog.  But in this house, Big Dog is at a bit of a disadvantage.  Both Mr. Dog and I have older siblings so we have repeatedly warned Big Dog that we are familiar with the special kind of abuse younger siblings receive  from older siblings.  It may not be physical, but usually it ends up with someone getting thumped.  Thinking back on my childhood, I remember vividly long series of irritations that pushed me to my limit and ended up with me punching my sister then getting punished for hitting while she, as the victim of my brutality, sat smugly by watching her plan come cleanly together.  I have promised as a mother that, while I will not support the thumping of an annoying older sibling, when it comes time for punishment, the annoyer will be treated with the same level of seriousness as the annoyee.  Last night I realized that the era of torment is in full swing in our house.

See, last night we had dinner with friends at their house.  While they have moved since last time we'd visited, their household is known for having cats.  Cute, furry, lovable cats.  It made it easy to motivate the boys to get their shoes on and get out the door for an on time arrival.
"Little Dog, come put on your shoes."
"No!"
"Don't you want to see the kitties?"
And suddenly there he was slipping on his boots.

"Let's go to the car."
"Wait, I just want to do one more thing..."
"Don't you wand to see the kitties?"
And there both boys were, ready to rush out the door.

We had dinner, and later the boys played with their new DS games while the adults sat at the table talking.  It was so civilized (well, apart from the technology related meltdowns and a few sibling issues, but let's ignore those and pretend it was all perfect loveliness since our hosts didn't seem at all upset by the outbursts.)  At one point, Little Dog's DS ran out of batteries, so I let him play games on my iPhone to keep him happy.

As they started to get cranky, we decided it was time to take the beasts boys home and said  our thanks for the dinner and conversation.  In our somewhat disorganized effort to get out of the house, Little Dog left his DS on the floor.

We were no more than 5 minutes away when Big Dog called it out.  "Where is Little Dog's DS?"
I looked in my pockets, Mr. Dog did the same and we realized that it was left behind. 
"I'll call them tomorrow and pick it up for you.  Don't worry." I assured him, but clearly that was not enough.  Little Dog, who was already tired and overly emotional, started to wail.  Tomorrow was too long.  Why couldn't I just get it now?  He couldn't possibly spend the rest of the evening, which mostly consisted of going to sleep, without it.  And he started to spin up into a bit of a tantrum.  Back in the world of reality, by the time I got home, I'd already received an email from our friends saying they had the DS and we could come pick it up in the morning, no problem.

Once we were home and my efforts to soothe Little Dog were showing some positive effect, Big Dog stepped in. 

"I sure hope the cats don't eat your DS, Little Dog."  Little Dog wails.
"The cats won't eat a DS. Stop it," I warned.
A pause, then another jab.

"I hope the cats won't scratch your DS up, Little Dog."  Another wail from Little Dog.
"The cats have no interest in the DS.  Mike has the DS.  I'm sure it's safe.  I'll get it in the morning."
A pause, then a new approach.

"I sure hope they didn't knock out the game cartridge.  It sure would be a bummer if you lost your game, Little Dog."
"Stop it.  Be quiet.  One more word about the possible demise of the DS and I'll give him yours."
"But he still wouldn't have his game.  Would you Little Dog?"
Now I can't be certain, but I'm pretty sure he wasn't just messing with Little Dog this time.  And I'm not even his younger sibling.

Family, our way

This time of year my Facebook feed is filled with photos of families doing holiday appropriate activities.  Children dressed up for the annual trip to the ballet, in mud boots for the great Christmas tree hunt, in aprons baking up holiday cookies and bundled up in the snow or on ice skates savoring the winter sports.  A lot of family portraits are being posted with everyone spiffed up and smiling.  Some are professionally taken, other are snapshots of everyone gathered around the tree wishing us all a Merry Christmas.  Seeing this constant stream of holiday perfection can make me feel like maybe I don't take this whole family thing seriously enough.  Maybe we aren't really making an effort to have all of those picture perfect family moments or maybe it's just that frequently our moments are more frenzied and less photo ready.

Sometimes I look at these photos and start to worry that we aren't doing enough, then I stop and remember that I actually know the people in these photos and for every Christmas card quality photo they post, there was probably at least one child meltdown or sibling battle that wasn't documented for mass consumption.  I can pretty safely assume the trip to the ballet was preceded by a long period of maternal nagging to brush hair or put on shoes and there is a good chance there was a fair amount of cussing as the family, immortalized as perfect in the photo, cruised the parking lot looking for a place to stow the car in time to rush to the performance before the curtain went up.  This smiling child on skis was probably up at the crack of dawn disturbing the parents' slumber long before any sane person is ready to rise and possibly refused to eat any of the breakfast that they requested but then rejected because the edges of the pancakes were too brown or the egg yolks were too runny.

As deceptive as the photos can be, there are no perfect families. Trust me.  That revelation is liberating. As soon as I let that go, I can more easily appreciate the oddness and chaos of my own kith and kin. We may have some photo perfect moments, but those are frequently surrounded by Little Dog decorating his body with bold designs drawn in marker probably predicting some future disposition to tattoos.  The best smiles in our snapshots were often achieved not by saying "cheese" but "underpants," the word that seems to constantly amuse these little men.  There is no trip to the ballet for our boys, yet, but the exuberant dancing to grandpa's choice of Christmas music is really more our speed, even if we are told "Don't look at us!"as soon as we start watching the performance, (but we do, just more covertly).

Some of our best family bonding may be centered around the new batch of apps grandpa downloaded for the boys, including the one that makes giant fart noises that were followed by the squealing laughter of my small monsters.  We may not have made holiday cookies, but the boys did have some sort of competitive crafting event going in the kitchen at grandma's house. Each time a family member was given a finished item from one boy, the other would rush back to the work table to furiously create another item for the same person. By the end of the first evening, I was the proud owner of about a half dozen book marks and a small zoo of pom pom animals with a varying number of eyes.

We have Santa photos, but how many other families have the special holiday memory of their 5 year-old poking Santa's belly to "see how jolly he was".  Well we do.  And trust me, I'll cherish that memory for years to come, even is Santa was somewhat less enthusiastic about the event.  We'll also remember Big Dog's impassioned lobbying that perhaps this year, instead of opening presents on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, we could open all of the presents on Christmas Eve morning.  Though he was unsuccessful in attaining his goal, we may well have a future lawyer on our hands. Let's just hope he uses his powers for good, not evil.

We'll weather the sibling battles, the potty talk, the occasional yelling and in the end the memories that float to the top, the ones that persist, will be nearly as picture perfect as those in my Facebook feed.

What passes for romance these days

Tonight I had my Pilates class and made it home a few minutes before Mr. Dog walked in with the boys.  As we all took off our shoes and coats we kind of gathered up in the entryway.  Big Dog, free of his shoes, bolted upstairs to play and Little Dog was still working on his freeing his feet from his sneakers.  As Mr. Dog brushed past me in the narrow space, I said, "What's up, yo?" because, yes, I'm street like that.  And he replied, "What up with you, you?"
His voice thick with distaste, Little Dog piped in, "Why do you guys have to always be so lovey-dovey?" and took off up the stairs, leaving us laughing in his wake.
"Really?  That's lovey-dovey now?" I asked Mr. Dog.
And as soon as it was out of my mouth, our small critic's voice drifted down from the stairwell, "Ug. You disgust me." And he stomped away.
I didn't realize that my faux urban posturing could be mistaken as the language of love.  I guess you really do learn something new every day.

The verdict is in

And thankfully it is not a death sentence. The garage called and the Passat is able to be saved.  Turns out by getting off the freeway immediately I managed to prevent damage to the engine.  After a thorough cleaning and an oil change, they expect they'll have it back to me tomorrow.  And they're fixing the back hatch too.  So I don't need to immediately replace my car, which is good news.  I have time to think and plan, just the way I like.  Life is good.

And then there are things that I'm less thankful for...

So after a pretty perfect Thanksgiving with my family, we headed home.  Packed the kids and the bags and the very big dogs into our two cars and said goodbye to our family.  I never like the feeling of driving away from my parents but I do love the feeling of arriving home, especially if I have the foresight to tidy up before we leave.  But that didn't happen quite as normally planned this time.  See, we'd been dreading the traffic since our drive down took twice as long as usual.  And as it turns out the traffic was light, the boys were well behaved and about two and a half hours into the drive we were seeing signs indicating we were just 20 minutes from home.  And that's when it happened.  The console started blinking "STOP" in bright red letters and a little alarm sounded a screaming kind of burst to let me know I needed to immediately pull my car to the shoulder.  The oil light also blinked at me in time with my turn signal as I maneuvered to the side of the road.

Mr. Dog pulled up behind me and called to ask what was going on.  I offered a brief if somewhat short-tempered and slightly shrieking explanation and he left his car and came up along side the car.  We popped the hood and checked the oil level.  It was on the low side of things, but not seriously so.  We added a bit to bring it to a more standard level and we waited a few minutes.  Mr. Dog walked back to his car, then came back.  I wasn't sure what he was doing, but I also am unaccustomed to unplanned car malfunctions so I didn't really think much when he appeared at my passenger-side window.  Turns out when he left his car to come to my aid, he made sure his door was secured.  Unfortunately he did so with his keys inside the car.  And let's not forget that the dogs were both in the backseat.  Unsure what to do next we discussed calling a locksmith.  How long would it take?  What if we took a very long time and we all had to sit on the shoulder in the cars until they arrived?  And how much would that cost?  In our somewhat compromised judgement, we decided it would be quicker and probably cost about the same (or even less) if he just broke the window.  It wasn't until he was mid-break when it dawned on me that I could probably call the police and get the door opened, but obviously that was too late.

With the window glass smashed and keys retrieved, we had one problem solved, one to go. We decided to see if my car had been soothed by the addition of oil.  When I started the station wagon up, the alarm was gone, but as I started to pull forward, it started again.  I immediately stopped, uttered some choice words which I'm sure the boys will be repeating at school and accepted our situation.   I called a tow truck and began to sink deeper into my panic.

I was not sure what is going on with my car, but felt strongly that if the car decides it is necessary to scream at me, chances are the news isn't good.  So as we stood on the hill near the shoulder waiting for our tow I started to google the symptoms on my ever-present iPhone.  I was right.  Turns out VW Passat's have a nasty design flaw that can lead to oil sludge problems and these problems can lead to expensive engine repairs or in some cases engine failure.  There's even an official recall on oil sludge related damage.  If you have properly documented receipts for your oil changes at intervals of no more than 5,000 miles, VW will pay for the resulting damage including a full replacement of the engine if necessary.  But you need to have the documentation.  And I don't.  It's not that I don't have my car's oil changed regularly, it's that I stopped going to the dealership for this service after being overcharged on one occasion and nearly charged for hours of labor diagnosing a nonexistent electrical problem that was actually just a blown out headlight (that was later correctly diagnosed when I brought the car back and happened to be assigned a different service adviser).  After the breach of trust, I started taking my car for oil changes at those smaller local, drive in, oil change and drive out kind of places.  And I don't think I've gone to the same one twice.  And I know I've chucked the receipts, because who in the world would be interested in my oil changes when I plan on essentially driving this car until eternity or the car turns to dust in my hands as I drive.  So in other words, if it is an oil sludge issue, I'm screwed.  I've resigned myself to this.

If I've ever doubted that either of my children had a melodramatic side, all doubt was removed as we waited.  Big Dog, in a weepy dread-filled voice that "I don't want to die," then later, "I guess this is better than being killed," and "I'm so happy that we all survived."   Little Dog began panicked pleas for his stuffed hippo toy who was left in the car because poor little Hippo was terrified and lonely.  He also began randomly screaming short, sharp screams completely unprovoked.  And because this clearly was not enough, as we stood on the other side of the of road that ran along side the freeway and up the small embankment hill from our cars, Dashiell, our great Dane, decided he'd rather be with us than waiting in the stranded vehicle and started to try to climb his way our of the broken window.  Mr. Dog had to quickly, but cautiously, rush back to the car to secure him to the seat with his leash so he would remain safely in place until we were rescued from our plight.


I was largely unable to sleep last night and instead stayed up late reading everything I could about the 2004 Passat oil sludge issues and possible outcomes.  I then went on to investigating what cars might be suitable replacements for the Passat if it did end up being a fatal injury.  All of this has left me feeling very stressed and at loose ends.  See, I'm a planner by nature.  I'd planned on that car lasting at least until it was 10 years old.  I'd held up my end of the maintenance and assumed that combined with the low mileage, I could ensure it would.  According to my plan, I had a couple of years to decide what the next car would be.  How big, what make, which model were all things I hadn't really thought much about.  And now I'm having to decide just what kind of car is going to be with us for the next 10 years.  All I have absolutely decided at this point is that it sure as hell isn't going to be another Volkswagen.  Sorry guys, I think this is how we break up.  Though right now I'm feeling kind of thankful that the back hatch mechanism was broken, forcing us to caravan to Portland in two cars.  I can only imagine that the kind and helpful tow truck driver might have felt a bit more put out if we had to pack two adults, two children and two large dogs into the cab of his truck.

And if you have any great ideas about what the next car should be, please let me know.  I'm compiling a list of what I need to investigate and test drive.  Even if this isn't the end of the Passat, it certainly is a warning call.  As I posted on facebook earlier "putting it out there to all of you... if you had to start thinking about replacing your station wagon, had two kids (who just keep on growing) and two dogs but didn't want to drive a car the size of a small apartment but came from a family of long legged people, and cared about fuel economy, what kind of car would you be looking at?"

No, thank YOU!

Despite the rain and traffic that turned our 3 hour drive to Portland into a 6 hour trek, and despite the malfunctioning hatch mechanism on the station wagon that turned our family ride into a two car caravan because we couldn't figure out how to maneuver a Great Dane into the back of the car without first dismembering him, we were able to make it to Grandma and Grandpa's for the big day of eating.  Or as Little Dog called it, "The first day of Thanksgiving." When Big Dog corrected him and said there was only one Thanksgiving day, Little Dog reminded him that the day after you got to eat leftovers and pie at breakfast, we all were forced to agreed that it was like a second day of Thanksgiving celebration.

Grandma spent much of the day buzzing about the kitchen getting everything in order, making sure we all had snacks then reminding us not to eat too much because we still had dinner on the way.  As always we ate and talked and ate and talked.  The boys obsessed over the new games Grandma and Grandpa brought for the Wii, keeping them unusually occupied apart from the short bursts of discord when a game was completed and a winner and loser were declared.  Meanwhile the dogs monopolized the couches and chairs in the living room. 

After the much needed post-meal digestion break, the pie was served and when I looked over to see the boys at the table with a can of whipped cream pretty much covering anything that resembled pie on their plates, I had to ask.
"Is that my child with a can of whipped cream in his hand?  And does grandma really think that's a good idea?"
Her answer was little more than a sheepish grin and much stifled laughter that shook her body as she tried to look genuinely chastened.  She clearly failed.

And even with the bedtime resistance from the boys that comes just like clockwork after any exceptional day, we can more or less declare the day a perfect Thanksgiving.  Or as perfect as things can be in real life.
For that, I am extremely thankful.