Rachel Callahan

Living Two-Sun-Sixteen To the Fullest.

March 10, 2016March 9, 2016 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Running

As I demanded and expected after surviving last year, 2016 has been going my way. Or rather, Two-Sun-Sixteen.

So much so that, every now and then, I wonder if the whole “Power of Words” thing has something to it. The fact that I named Two-Turd-Fifteen before the flood, before the tornado, before the hospitalization due to tonsilitis, before the tonsillectomy, before the pneumonia on my birthday, and before the wreck seems like it was asking for treachery. And maybe, somehow, naming Two-Sun-Sixteen is setting things back right. Or better than right.

But then I slap myself upside the head and say that’s silly.

But it does make one wonder…

BUT WHO CARES. Because it is now Two-Sun-Sixteen and I am living in a high-pitched frenzy and have soaring levels of optimism and activity.

– I ran a half marathon.

– Then I accidentally ran an unofficial half marathon during a random Saturday run – because I got new shoes and it was pretty outside. (Although I was kinda mad that no one was around to give me a medal.)

– I bought bizarrely asymmetrical leopard print jeans.

(They were 80% off! That’s a lot of asymmetrical leopard print for free! And I’m frenzied with optimism!)

– I attempted to get purple highlights in my hair.

(Actually I told my hairdresser to do whatever she wanted with my hair and she gleefully chose purple. It ended up a bit more magenta, which I’m still absolutely loving, but that’s because she’s been dying it black for so long. Next time, the purple will stick better. And let’s put more in it! Because why not?? FRENZY!!)

– Then I ran another half marathon. …And signed up for a third – three in three months, besides that random Saturday run that rudely did not grant me a medal.

– Then I chose to tackle the complete revitalization, rearrangement, and reorganization of my entire house, with the help of my fantastic friend and blog reader Tara. Plus a few other big changes related to that. But more on that later.

So. In case you haven’t picked up on it yet, I am living Two-Sun-Sixteen in a giant year-long manic episode.

As such, I haven’t made much head room for blog post development lately, because mania takes up a lot of space, so instead of a well-planned and constructed essay, today you get random pictures of my weekend. Because FRENZY!!

So let’s rewind a bit.

Half Marathon number two for this year, The Tuscaloosa Half, is actually my third half marathon overall, because I did this same race last year. Chris booked us a hotel months ago, along with a grandparent reservation for the children, in order to turn it into a grand date weekend. So although the race only lasted two and a half hours Saturday morning, we were gone from lunchtime Friday through afternoon Sunday.

…Which is, by the way, the way to do a race together, if you’re going to do one. Plenty of time for dates and food and being completely lazy and of course photography.

We ate all the carbs Friday night with Chris’ brother and sister-in-law, then got up early Saturday morning for the race. At the starting line, we found Robert (my Physical Therapist) before the race and took the required we’re-about-to-run-13-miles photo,

…which turned out to be quite a good photo for me since, during the race, my hot pink sports bra decided to generously bleed its hot pink color on my left boob, thereby making all my finish line and post-race photos a bit…unsettling.

(Why just my left boob? Did right boob not sweat? Did the sports bra company make the right half of the bra not bleedable? So perplexing.)

I did not realize my extremely obvious boob circle existed until we got back to the hotel room much later, and I wanted to take a moment to be embarrassed and indignant that Chris hadn’t informed me of my circledy boob (which he swears he didn’t notice but then the question is why wasn’t he looking at my boob?? That’s what husbands are for! To tell you if you have something in your teeth or on your boob!) But just as I was working up a good embarrassment, I remembered my good friend Tanya’s last marathon.

And I laughed at myself.

(Seriously if you’re a girl or a runner, go read her story and then come back. It’s the best worst race story in the history of running. But beware – there’s a bit of language, and potentially disturbing illustrations. Don’t open it if your four-year-old is looking over your shoulder.)

So anyway.

After the race and a bit of laying in bed, the day was just beautiful,

and Chris and I still wanted to be outside. So we set off on a hike at Lake Lurleen State Park – one of my favorite hikes.

Chris was giddy and really feeling the selfie bug, so I was a good wife and played along.

We ate an early dinner and collapsed into bed. I might have fallen asleep at 7pm. For the first time since I was six.

The next morning was equally as beautiful, so Chris found us another hiking adventure – this time at Munny Sokol Park – somewhere neither of us had ever been. I texted a few friends to make sure it wasn’t the Leakin Park of Tuscaloosa, and then we set off.

It was actually quite lovely, and not a dead body to be found.

…Not even on Lower Psycho Trail, which only led us to this lovely creek…that did smell kind of funny once I got close enough for this picture.

When we headed back to Tuscaloosa for lunch, there was actually at train stopped on the beautiful train trestle that goes across the Black Warrior River, meaning that I was required to take a few more pictures.

And even better, the train possessed some awesome graffiti,

EVEN a smoking pirate Santa.

We headed back to town, and I texted my Mom to see when she wanted us to pick up our dear children, children that I was positive had missed us tremendously and were ready to see us again.

Except that one of those children interrupted our text conversation to argue.

…and then proceeded to screenshot a text from her father as proof that she should be allowed to stay out of our presence for a little bit longer.

This is modern parenthood, y’all.

We waited until sunset to retrieve our children from Grandkid Heaven,

where our ideal weekend of loveliness was finished off with a gorgeous sunset.

…I even bothered my parent’s neighbor’s sheep (and therefore sheepdog) to include them in the picture.

And so, I will get back to my mania of Two-Sun-Sixteen, maybe with a couple less blog posts than two-turd-sixteen because FRENZY! And I will wish that your year is going just as insanely fantastic.

Like Five-Year-Olds Dating.

March 7, 2016March 6, 2016 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Storytime

Noah and Loulie have been close since they met. She’s the Girl One Street Up, he’s the dashing gentleman with the giant blue eyes.

(She’s got some pretty fantastic blue eyes herself, so my grandkids are going to look AMAZING.)

Noah often makes plans for their future, as in this conversation:

“I am a boy so I can’t get a baby in my belly, but Loulie might when I marry her….so I won’t get to name a baby.”

“Who will name the baby then?”

“Loulie. Because it’s in her tummy.”

Their relationship has also weathered many storms. From The Grasshopper Incident, to Loulie making long-term pet decisions that Noah didn’t approve of, to the daily storm that is the mixture of their quite assertive personalities.

When we (myself and Loulie’s Mom Not-Crazy-Renee, in case you haven’t made that connection yet,) first began to get together to let them play, we were amazed at how well they imagined together. They could carry out these long, detailed, impossibly thick plotlines in their games of “Mommy/Daddy” or “Octonauts” or “Mommy/Daddy Octonauts” that astounded us. We couldn’t begin to follow their plots, but both of them understood them so intrinsically – as if their imaginations were somehow syncing with a USB cable that we couldn’t see. Or maybe they can AirDrop. All we knew is, they were a perfect playmate match.

That was at first.

Now they act like an extraordinarily grouchy old married couple that require quite a bit of refereeing as they assertively snap at each other and demand that their game get played next.

Where has the romance gone?

We’re not sure, but we’ve considered trying to rekindle it with a Get Along Shirt.

I mean, how awesome of a wedding slideshow picture would that make?

But alas. In the meandering pathway of their relationship, we have tried to give them ample opportunities to really get to know one another better.

One of those opportunities is that Loulie goes to Cubbies with us every Wednesday night – the Scout-Like three and four year old class at our church.

This weekly date has provided fantastic photo opportunities, such as missions night, when every kid is supposed to dress up from another country.

(I won’t tell you how many threats it took to get Noah to sit by Loulie AND smile for a picture, But that seemingly-adoring smile on her face is really just clinched teeth at his refusal to cooperate.)

(And his hands are tightly behind his back because although the thought of No iPad for a week could cajole a smile, it could NOT convince him to put his arm around his adorable friend. There are limits, you know.)

Despite Noah’s refusal to show his affection in the moment, he did tell Chris later that night that “I dressed up from Greece and Loulie dressed up as an Indian. But she didn’t look like an Indian, she looked like a Princess.”

Noah wasn’t wrong. In fact, when I showed Chris the pictures later, Loulie immediately reminded him of one of his favorite childhood princesses.

(And can we take a minute to appreciate Loulie’s Henna Tattoos? Practical girl that she is, she told everyone they were really just done with a brown marker. But no matter. They were amazing.)

But aside from their actual Cubbie dates (Chris has pointed out that Noah is the only pre-k playah that is bringing a date to Cubbies every single week), it’s the conversations that occur in the backseat on the way to and from Cubbies where the real magic happens.

For some reason, the first couple of weeks included a lot of conversations about the various ways you can die, all presented by my two children, and all shot down by Loulie.

Because, as we quickly learned would be a theme in our conversations with her, she refuses to believe anything, ever, unless her mother has previously told her it as fact.

“If you fall out of a roller coaster you can die.”

“No you can’t. My Mommy has never told me that.”

“Well, you can die in a race car.”

“I can NOT believe you.”

“Did you know you can die if you drink too much water?”

“Come ON, guys. Why do you keep telling me things I DO NOT believe?!”

As I was getting out of the car to pump gas, I heard my children try to convince Loulie that TNT is real. And, of course, can kill you.

I suggested they talk about something other than things related to death, and when I got back in the car, was relieved when Loulie bouncingly informed me that they talked about great things and that “everyone topicipated in conversation!”

The next week, Noah tried to work in a smooth nickname in her direction.

“Hey Lou, are you excited about Cubbies tonight?”

As adorable as his attempt was, it was shot down and followed by a very indignant five minute speech about how her name was Loulie, or Lousana, but it was NOT Lou. And no one could call her Lou because it was NOT her name.

That same night, I had to send a text to Renee to let her know that if the phrases “overheated underwear” or “heated over underwear” got used in her home, to please blame the ride to church. Because when you can’t talk about death, there are really just not many subjects left.

One week on the way to Cubbies, we decided to take a quick hike. I had underestimated the professional-level hikers that I have turned my children into, but Loulie was well aware. Running on trails with large rocks and roots was not easy for her, and she kept becoming frustrated as my kids would sprint ahead, and she’d find herself flat on the trail.

Finally, she indignantly told me, “I am really mad at these roots. Maybe you shouldn’t come to this park anymore because there are so many roots and they are dangerous for children!!”

Noah, who happened to still be nearby, kicked the root for her. Just like a gentleman.

(She has since risen to professional levels of hiking herself, thanks to some tips from her gentleman friend.)

But despite all of his attempts to progress their relationship, ultimately, it came down to this conversation.

Noah: “I’m going to stay in my house forever. I’m going to buy it.”

Loulie: “I’m going to live somewhere different but next door to my family.”

Noan: “Wait, wait, wait. I already told you a long time ago I’m going to marry you.”

Loulie: “I already decided a long time ago I’m going to marry my little brother Jonas.”

Noah: “You can’t marry someone in your family. Ali told me that.”

Loulie: “Anyway, if you want to marry me you have to ask Jason and Renee first and then the mommy gets to say whether she wants to marry you or not.”

Noah: “No, I said I’m going to marry you. I didn’t ask.”

Loulie: “Well, I decided I’m going to marry my little brother Jonas so the answer is no.”

So, I guess that’s that. The future may be dim, but the present is very, very bright.

On Oldies and Parenthood.

March 2, 2016March 2, 2016 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Kids: The Experience., Parent of the Year

As a kid, I remember my parents singing us the oldies.

My mother had goofy taste – her favorite lullabies included She wore an itsy bitsy teeny tiny yellow polka dot bikini and Yellow Submarine and Puff the Magic Dragon.

(Not sure what my Mom was doing during the sixties and seventies but really it’s best not to ask.)

My Dad liked the sappy sentimental singers – Cat Stevens and James Taylor and Simon and Garfunkel. Cat’s in the Cradle was my dad’s jam. Still is.

(Although when he found out I could play anything on Spotify, he did ask me to find In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida by Iron Butterfly. So I’m not too sure about his adolescence, either.)

As my parents before me, I find myself often singing the songs of my youth to my children. SURELY they’re not oldies. I mean it was just a couple of years ago when Radiohead released Creep, right? Not that I’d ever sing Creep and in reference to one of my children.

Ever.

Maybe.

But on an unrelated note it’s really easy to change out the lyrics from I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo to you’re a creep, you’re a weirdo.

But at least I’m not singing Beck’s Loser to them. Right?

Anyway.

I often find that the Oldies of my generation, whether or not I actually listened to those particular songs at the time, apply greatly to my life now.

…When one of my children passes gas, I can’t help but sing The Cranberries Linger.

Do you have to, do you have to let it linger…

…Avril Lavigne’s Complicated comes up a lot, too. Because kids always gotta go and make things so complicated.

…Noah can sing Rolling Stones’ You Can’t Always Get what you Want because I’ve sung it to him so many times.

…Oops! I Did it Again is my excuse line when I take too much Mommy Tax and they express outrage at the over-taxation.

The list is endless, really.

But I’ve found that with many of Noah’s endeavors, Jump Around by House of Pain usually applies.

Such as the other day, when he was using his cape to go flying…

(I did a bit of photo magic from this video for him afterward. He’s kind of in love with himself in this picture.)

And last summer, when he was jumping over his Uncle Leo, the same song applied…

But the most applicable song to parenthood, SO MUCH of parenthood, is this clip from the really awful song Up in Here by DMX really. It describes the act of raising little humans better than anyone ever has before.

Every parent needs that song clip cued up for daily play.

What songs are the soundtrack to your parenthood?

The Perils of Standing Up.

February 29, 2016February 28, 2016 Rachel Callahan Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience., Storytime

It took weeks of parental foot-putting-down for us to convince Noah to stand up to pee.

He liked sitting down just fine and saw no reason to stand, thank you very much. Lazy peeing is good peeing.

And finally, when out of sheer obedience he would stand, he would inch closer and closer to the toilet until his thighs were front-hugging the toilet in a most uncomfortable-to-watch level of familiarity.

I prayed against so many toilet façade germs during those weeks of bowl-sidling, but was, I suppose, somewhat grateful that there was NO WAY the kid could possibly miss the toilet. Because when giving a thigh massage to a toilet, one cannot have bad aim.

So there’s that.

But eventually he moved on from his intimate relationship with toilet bowls and seemed to have a decent relationship with the the act of urination – there was no toilet contact, and his aim was 99% accurate. I felt like I had succeeded in training him up in the way that he should go.

Until last Thursday night.

Noah and I had just arrived at small group at a friend’s house – Chris and Ali were coming separately after stopping by the store. Things didn’t start out well for Noah. We walked in the door, and his very-excited three-year-old friend Abigail ran around the corner, screaming Noah’s name.

Ever the dainty little lady, she tackled him with the power of an Alabama National Championship Linebacker in the hug of the century. He immediately fell backward onto the floor, at which point the gigantic dog, a creature that Noah carefully crafts his life around avoiding, jumped on top of the poor child and began licking his face.

I sifted through the dogpile of dog and Abigail to rescue my flattened son, then safely delivered him to a chair.

Where Abigail followed.

“I’m going to color you a picture, Noah! Look! Coloring!”

…At which point Abigail’s older sister, Caroline, came in and abruptly pointed out that the picture in question was her picture and it was not to be colored on by smaller hands nor given to houseguests.

This was an altogether devastating turn of events for Abigail, and in the same passion with which she had she greeted Noah, she wailed her sorrow into our ears over her lack of coloring muse.

Noah and I quickly exited the room to give her some space.

I found a quiet spot in the living room, and Noah headed to the bathroom.

A few minutes later, more friends arrived for small group. Passing by the bathroom on their way to the living room, they were able to detect faint calls that sounded like my son.

“Noah’s calling for you.”

I got up and walked toward the door skeptically.

“No, he’s calling for Daddy. Which means he doesn’t really need me – he just wants Chris to wipe his butt because Chris will and Noah knows I’m retired from the butt-wiping business.”

But, to end the nonstop yells for Daddy, who was not even there, I opened the bathroom door.

And I stared.

Words formed, but they couldn’t leave my lips.

Then they did.

“HOLY CRAP okay he does need me.”

Noah turned his head toward me from where he was standing in front of the toilet, and offered explanation.

“I had to tee-tee and I had to poop too and I tried to keep my bottom closed while I tee-teed….but it all just came out.”

And out indeed had it come. He was on his last of ten days of antibiotics, which always gives him a healthy dose of what he refers to as “water poops.”

Except in the case of what was in front of me at that moment, it was more like Fifteen Cans of Hormel Chili Poops.

It was like a blender set on liquify and left on all day. With the lid off.

It was like a Hershey’s Factory caught in a heat wave.

It was a Venti Mocha Crappuccino with an extra shot.

It was on his legs. On his pants. On his feet. There were three separate piles on my friend’s bathroom floor. And there appeared to be a freshly formed river flowing through all of the crevices of his underwear.

It’s definitely one of those moments in life where you don’t know exactly where to start. But you know that the only way you’re going to accomplish the task at hand is to just pick an area and start rowing.

I chose the floor, since it was the one thing affected that did not belong to me.

But first, I needed proof of what I was about to do on behalf of Chris, the parent that had actually been summoned to the scene. So I took a picture. A picture that I will not show you. Because it is an image that I will see every time I walk into my friend’s bathroom for the rest of my life and you do not need to carry that burden.

But it was roughly like…

I grabbed some toilet paper and began trying to sop up the piles of butt pudding coating the floor.

Noah took exception to my strategies. “Mom!! It’s on my feet!!’

“It’s on EVERYTHING, son. I’m getting to it.”

Then he became paranoid about the situation becoming more complicated. “Mom!! Don’t put so much toilet paper in the toilet! It’s going to STOP UP!”

“Well can you reach it to flush?”

He carefully leaned forward and began flushing the toilet after every other wipe-and-dump.

(Sorry, dear homeowners, if your water bill is high this month. And also I owe you a roll and a half of toilet paper. And a new house.)

I removed defecation from the floor and pertinent parts of Noah, then carefully had him swivel and get up on the toilet so that I could get to the fronts of his legs and his pants.

And I was traumatized all over again.

When I got the full picture of that Hungarian Goulash dripping from every inch his garments, I nearly lost my ability to parent. Ever. Again.

Then I took another picture.

My next order of business was containing his underwear river before it got turned sideways and became a waterfall.

I took the trash bag out of the trash can and carefully shimmied it up and over Noah’s pants, praying to God for protection of my hands. Then I removed the tragedy and tied up the trash bag.

Only later, after Noah was happily asleep, did I wonder what pants I had thrown away. Were they new? Old? Did they fit? Were they too small?

But it didn’t matter in the moment. They could have been Gold-Encrusted hand-me-downs from Prince George himself and I would have tossed them without a thought. The only thing that mattered in that moment is that the wasteland formerly known as clothes be contained in airtight plastic.

As I was performing this delicate operation, Noah said, “I’m so sad. I want to be playing right now.”

I looked up from squeegying poo off of his legs and felt sorrow for him.

For just a second.

But then I remembered that I was in the process of squeegying poo that did not belong to me.

Meanwhile, Chris and Ali showed up. Since we put our kids to bed at small group, this meant that I now had someone to yell for to get Noah’s pajamas and fresh underwear out of his bag. And also find some cleaning supplies.

Chris came with clothing and Clorox wipes. I yelled for him to leave them outside the door. The scene was so bad that I simultaneously didn’t want to have to subject him to it (except via picture, later) and I felt the need to yell for him to hear me through the lava filling the bathroom due to the erupted anus volcano.

I Cloroxed the floor. Then Cloroxed it again. Then looked at the giant brown stains on Noah’s legs – brown stains I’d been furiously rubbing with toilet paper. And I Cloroxed my son’s legs.

I immediately felt guilty about putting the world’s harshest chemical (in wipe form, but still) directly on my child’s skin, so I yelled for Chris to bring me paper towels. I moistened them and scrubbed the chemicals from his tender little legs.

I still felt guilty (and despite the Clorox I also felt that my son was infinitely unclean), so I shoved him in his pajamas and sent him to find his father to find a bathtub and re-clean everything below the child’s waist.

But right before Noah left the bathroom, one of the countless children yelled “I think he’s with the dog!!”

Noah, naturally thinking they were missing and trying to locate him, yelled back, “I’m not with the dog -I’m in the bathroom! I just….pooped a little.”

From Where All Knowledge Gurgles Forth.

February 26, 2016February 25, 2016 Rachel Callahan Utter Silliness

While I was helping Ali find a haul of reading material at our local library earlier this week, I happened upon this instant classic.

Right?!

Surely the authors were just trolling parents of tweens. Surely they realized what they were doing.

Right??

Then again, maybe they’re of that new generation – the cross-section of humankind that my daughter is staunchly a part of – the ones that insist that Uranus is pronounced YOUR-uh-nus.

(Which doesn’t sound much better but a little.)

Regardless of whether they were simply writing for the innocent, clean, YOUR-uh-nus-pronouncing new generation or they were purposefully trying to make me spit my water at a library book, I was intrigued.

And as soon as I left, I was absolutely kicking myself for not borrowing the book.

I sent the cover to Chris, and he and I immediately disagreed as to the meaning of the book.

I felt it was about the perils of flatulence. Or maybe about how to use a particularly helpful essential oil.

Chris felt it was an allegory of a precious friend’s Instagrammed hemorrhoids.

Whatever it was, I had to discover the jewels contained within.

So that night, at 11pm, while I was delirious from child-induced exhaustion and a double dose of chocolate, I bought the book on Kindle so that I could quickly skim it and use the search feature to make sure I didn’t miss anything.

Here is my summary of this life-changing literature, all quotes from within its magical pages. I recommend reading it aloud for the best results.

“I am Uranus, ruler of the sky!”

Uranus’s voice sounded oddly familiar.

Uranus took shape in the darkness above them. The Olympians stared at him in awe. He was massive, bigger than any Titan they had ever seen. His dark-blue form filled the entire sky, arching from one end of the horizon to the other.

Uranus boomed in answer.

Uranus nodded his enormous head.

They whipped around to see what—or who—Uranus was talking about.

“Butt out. I can handle this myself, Father!” Cronus yelled up to Uranus in an irritated voice.

Poseidon was staring at Uranus. “Wow! Who knew there was such a gigantic gigantic being? So should we fear him like he asked?”

His eyes blazing, Oceanus looked up at his father, Uranus.

Uranus laughed.

Caught between Uranus in the sky, the Olympians were sitting ducks.

Uranus stared in shock.

Uranus fought back, producing stars that appeared sharper and more dangerous than any they had ever seen.

Uranus’s giant body still stretched from one end of the horizon to the other.

“Looks like Uranus is leaving,” remarked Athena.

The sky had grown darker as they walked, and this time Uranus wasn’t the cause. It really was almost night.

“Uranus wants me to destroy you, but that’s not what I want. Not anymore, anyway.”

“I know you want to escape Titan troubles, but shouldn’t we wait for those incoming bubbles?” Uranus sing-songed.

“You’re getting bubbles on my food!’ she complained.

Aphrodite giggled. “I can’t help it. They do as they please.”

After finishing the book, Amazon requested that I leave a review.

Because I’m a helpful person, I was glad to oblige.

I hope all the people find it helpful.

Protected: Clowns in the Attic.

February 24, 2016February 24, 2017 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Storytime

Eight Years in a Nutshell or Two.

February 24, 2016February 24, 2016 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, I'm a Blog Geek

This month is my blog’s eight year old birthday.

I don’t usually even think about my blogging anniversary, let alone mention it, because it happens every year. So what.

But this year I’ve been pondering it more – I think possibly because this past year is the first time I’ve ever seriously thought about quitting – and more than once, too.

(I’m not quitting. At least right now. But I’ve never even considered it as an option until this past summer. But all the whys and why nots of why I’ve thought about quitting are another post in and of itself, if the meanderings of my mind hold anyone’s interest.)

Anyway. I’ve been thinking about it in terms of “What exactly have I been doing for the last eight years?And why? And what have been the highlights? And the lowlights? And why should I continue for another eight years? Or why should I quit now before my show has gone on for three seasons too long?”

I thought some of you might like a peek into what this thought process looks like.

But first, a giant, huge, crucial disclaimer: I am going to share some of my stats and stuff – stuff I never normally share. I share this only because I’ve had lots of readers that were very curious. I am not sharing it for comparison’s sake or any other weird awkward purpose. Only because I think some of you may find it interesting. For those who may find it obnoxious, please feel free to skip – I intend absolutely zero obnox with this post and would be sad to hear that obnox was taken from it.

So there. I feel better.

Let’s talk some blogging by the numbers.

In eight years, I have…

– Published 2,092 posts.
– Deleted 2 of those published posts. (One of them I deleted years after it was published, and the other hours after it was published.)
– Met at least 6 out-of-state blog readers, and dozens of local blog readers.
– Driven out of state to meet 2 out-of-state blog readers.
– Had one international blog reader come stay at my house for 4 days.
– Filed 2 police reports regarding sketchy internet behavior (one I blogged about, the other I cannot blog about. Which is really too bad because it’d be a good post.)
– Wondered how I offended at least 20 former readers who disappeared suddenly and mysteriously.
– Have embarrassed my mother with my inappropriateness at least 38 times.
– Have had 6 readers go back and read all 2,092 posts. Those are my favorite readers of all time. And they’re a little crazy.
– Have been visited by 228 countries. I am most popular here:

And least popular here:

(I don’t blame you for not liking me, Niue. I’ve never even heard of you. Are you sure you’re a real place?)

(Okay I just Wikipedia’ed Niue and it is an island country 1,500 miles from New Zealand with a population of 1,190. So one visit from Niue is an honor! Welcome, Queen of Niue!)

In eight years, these were my blog’s visitors…

So yeah. 2012 was the year my butt went viral, and it increased my traffic by ten times. That was also the year that I tearfully had to give up reading all of my reader’s blogs (something I had been loyally committed to for four years) because I starting having to use that time to answer butt comments, butt texts, butt emails, and butt Facebook messages.

(I’ve since quit answering butt questions, for the most part, but oddly enough, that time never came back.)

Of my 2,092 posts, here were the most popular by the numbers:

1. An Inconvenient Gap of Truth, July 2012 – 4,824,746 hits. That’s right – 48% of all the visits my blog has ever seen were to one post. And oddly enough it still accounts for 44% of my hits – even though the information in the post is, as many people have kindly (or not so kindly) pointed out, quite outdated.

2. On the Proper Fitting of Jeans, February 2012 – 593,712 hits.

3. Mom Jeans and the Dreaded “Long Butt”, March 2009 – 490,447 hits. This was the original jeans post – the mother from which all the others were birthed. And I was wearing some seriously awful shoes and socks in that post.

4. Jeans for Most of America, October 2012 – 404,862 hits.

5. Geography, Pre-K Style, July 2009 – 253,822 hits. FINALLY A POST WITHOUT BUTTS. This video still makes me smile to watch. (And for the record, Noah did not follow in his sister’s Geography Prodigy footsteps.)

6. Downton Abbey MBTI Chart, November 2013 – 225,607 hits. Of all the Downton Abbey Graphics I did, this other one was my favorite. But apparently not the people’s favorite.

7. New Studies Prove that Replacing Mom Jeans Can Result in Surgery-Free Liposuction, March 2009 – 130,228 hits. (Winning the longest blog post title in the history of the world…) My Mom was my beloved model for this post, and it freaks her out that her butt has been pinned 900 times. It did not help at all when I told her that my butt had been pinned 380,000 times. I’m pretty sure she’ll never join Pinterest for fear of unexpectedly coming across her own butt.

8. Yes Virginia, There is a Miniature Giraffe, March 2011 – 122,170 hits. This post is interesting because it’s not a post that people have shared, it’s a post that people have found via Google searches. Every now and then I’ll blog about something that many people are searching for and no one else is writing about, and because of that, it will be a popular post. Other examples of this are sippy cup mold, tonsillectomy recovery, the Dilemna Dilemma, and whether or not Harry Connick Jr. has had plastic surgery.

9. The Read-Aloud Challenge, May 2012 – 99,023 hits.

10. 35 Things to Do in Birmingham, June 2014 – 91,023 hits.

There’s definitely a trend in the top 10 posts – all of them (with the possible exclusion of the Downton Abbey post) contained somewhat helpful information, which is the type of thing that people like to share on the internet. 99% of my posts are not in the least bit helpful, but they’re significantly more fun for me to write than the helpful ones. As such, my favorite posts are none of the above. They’re the ones where I was able to write creatively about an experience or thought, or was able to turn my own personal crisis into a moment for laughter.

Fifteen of my favorite posts, not in any order, are:

(I put their hit numbers on, too, so you could experience the stark contrast of the unpopularity of unhelpful creative writing on the internet.)

– How a Turd in the Tub Saved my Saturday Night, November 2012 – 2,933 hits
– Social Media Policy for Labor and Birth, November 2010 – 1,566 hits
– Parenthood 2.0, May 2012 – 968 hits
– Have a Happy Vasectomy, September 2011 – 11,475 hits
– Dr. Pepper TEN: An Investigative Report, October 2011 – 4,527 hits
– How it Feels to Be Hated By a Celebrity, June 2012 – 3,844 hits
– The Chuck, November 2011 – 883 hits
– Innerspace: The Story of my Colonoscopy, January 2014 – 1,822 hits
– How to Use Essential Oils: A Step-By-Step Guide, July 2014 – 12,130 hits (and its horribly inappropriate sequel, One Oil to Rule Them All, February 2015 – 1,253 hits)
– Pinterexia Nervosa: A Diagnostic Guide, June 2013 – 1,993 hits
– On My Whirlwind Relationship with a Spammer, September 2014 – 968 hits
– When My Friends Told Their Marriage to Take a Hike, April 2013 – 1,196 hits
– Diary of a Tired Mom, February 2015 – 569 hits
– Can’t Buy Me Love, September 2011 – 1,082 hits

In other post round-ups…

Very, very rarely, I’m inspired to write about something serious. These are my three favorite serious posts from the past eight years:

– Coexist, January 2012
– Ambassadors for Honesty about Parenthood, August 2011
– Love Well, May 2013

I personally refuse to vlog, but I loved having Noah do these two posts:

– Noah’s Fashion Pointers, Volume One, August 2013
– Fashion Statements of Fact, September 2013
(And really, I enjoyed all of Noah’s guest posts. That was an especially fun stage of writing. I should have another baby. Or not.)

Most awkward moments that came about from blogging:

– I had a guy I didn’t know that well come up to me in the sanctuary at church one Sunday and say “I absolutely LOVED your post about your Colonoscopy!!!”

– One of the pastors at our church came up to me at a birthday party and said “Rachel. OH MY GOSH. Your post about Chris’ Vasectomy.”

I gulped and said, “Uh oh. I really pushed the envelope with that one. Am I facing church discipline?”

He said, “It was amazing. PLEASE push the envelope more often.”

(Okay that moment wasn’t awkward. It was awesome. But I sure thought it was about to get awkward.)

– Having to apologize to people for writing about them in what I thought was a humorous way but…they didn’t take it that way. That happened twice. As such, I now have a policy of always asking my friends before I blog about them.

Biggest Blogging Angsts:

Seriously. I angst about everything. Ev-er-y-thing. Here is a sampling of my most common internal angsts.

What if no one thinks this is funny? Why has no one commented? Oh my gosh no one has even liked it on Facebook I’m the worst writer ever. I’m totally losing my ability to put thoughts together – stupid dysautonomia! What if someone thinks I’m talking about them and I’m totally not? Oh I bet she’s going to be offended (causing awkward feelings next time I see person I’m paranoid about.) Oh no I just realized that person reads my blog there’s no way they aren’t offended or find me highly inappropriate because I am actually highly inappropriate. Why am I so inappropriate? I should be more ladylike – I bet that’s what my mother says to herself all the time. Why has no one still commented on this post? Oh no I really am the worst. Why have people quit commenting? Why do people have to read on their iPhones so it’s so hard to comment? What am I saying – I do everything on my iPhone. Oh man I’m so behind on answering comments I hope no one thinks I’m snobby! I love my readers and want to talk to them why don’t I have time? What if everyone takes that blog post wrong and reads it in the complete wrong voice? I HAVE NO BLOG IDEAS THIS WEEK WHAT AM I GOING TO WRITE ABOUT. Seriously oh no! I’m never going to have another writing idea again surely I’ve run out of ideas! NO ONE HAS COMMENTED ON THAT POST STILL!! I’m really the worst. Why am I so the worst?

Yes. No matter how many posts you write or how many years you do it, blogging is still a highly angsty undertaking.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this behind the scenes look at my blog. Feel free to ask any follow-up questions about blogging – I don’t talk about it often, so now’s your chance! I’ll be waiting over here in my puddle of angst.

Questionably The Most Intelligent Creature.

February 22, 2016February 21, 2016 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, This is TONGUE IN CHEEK People - Don't take me Seriously., Utter Silliness

A giraffe calf can stand up and walk within an hour of its birth.

…Yet we’re wiping butts for at least four years.

Baby dolphins have spines on the sides of their tongue that zip up to make a straw so that they can drink milk without getting salt water in it.

…Yet we’re cleaning out blasted sippy cup mold until they’re three (or until they’re eleven if they’re exceptionally spilly variety of kid.)

When puppies play fight, boy puppies will often let girl puppies win.

…Yet our kids look at us with wonder and confusion when we suggest the horror of sharing.

Baby Elephants will suck their own trunks for comfort.

…Yet we have to sneak into our infant’s rooms and replace their pacifiers 25 times a night. And then when they’re toddlers, we get at least a dozen callbacks a night. “My feet are cold I can’t close my eyes I just thought about elephants sucking on their trunks can I have a drink of water I think I heard a ladybug the curtains are SCARY!!”

Ducklings can leave the nest after only a couple of hours.

…Yet we’re not promised our house back even after our children have Bachelor’s Degrees. And maybe even MBAs.

Baby Japanese Macaques make snowballs. Not for any actual purpose – just for fun.

…Yet human children beg us to entertain them and whine continuously of boredom and are certain that no game will work without Mommy being an integral part of it.

When baby sea otters are born, they’re too fluffy to sink.

…Yet without us, our babies are completely and 100% helpless and unable to survive. UNTIL THEY’RE TWENTY-FIVE.

Young horses will be able to walk side-by-side with their parents within hours after birth.

…Yet we will push those awkward, clunky jogging strollers until our six-year-old’s feet are dragging the ground.

Baby hyenas begin to learn to hunt for themselves at 12 months old.

…Yet our precious offspring, the ones with fully functional opposable thumbs, assume we’ve been sent here by God to serve them. It is our greatest purpose. (And also when they open the fridge they see nothing there to eat.)

Hippo babies are weaned and fully ready to take care of themselves at eight months old.

…Yet at eight months, our babies can still only get around via Mommy’s left hip. And assume baby food is for smearing all over their face and throwing at the wall. And also find their own poop useful for the same purpose.

Sharks have fully developed teeth and eyes when they’re born, and are immediately self-sustainable.

…Yet “clean your own room and no I will not help you” is met with bewilderment and frightened exclamations of certain impossibility and death if attempted.

So what exactly makes humans the top of the food chain?

Baby animal facts learned from here, here, here, here, and here, and presented with enough grains of salt to spell out “I found this on the internet, y’all. It has to be true!”

On Parenting The Male Variety.

February 19, 2016February 18, 2016 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Boy Child = Bizarre., Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience., Parent of the Year, What's That Sound

“That bad smell you’re sniffin’ is my feet.”

Because that’s what a little boy tells his sister, who is across the room, when she happens to have the sniffles.

He was sitting in my lap, though, so I should know – he wasn’t wrong.

His shoes have smelled so dead-rotted-carcass lately that one night I was in the living room after his bedtime, and I put all the throw blankets in the laundry room to wash and had sniffed every pillow on the couch before I realized that his shoes were hiding under said couch.

It’s like he plants little surprise gifts for me to gleefully discover while he sleeps.

But he’s not just a rancid smell.

He’s also a confidently panicking backseat driver.

He can see my gas gauge. And notices when it turns from blue to orange. And freaks. The crap. Out.

“Mommy please can you get gas right now? There’s a gas station! STOOOOOOOOP!!!”

And then there are his veiled suggestions.

“Mommy I’d just like to let you know that the Waffle House is nearby.”

Never gonna happen, kid.

But his latest craze in over-stepping his job description is being a hands-on-the-wheel hawk. I really had no idea how often I took both hands off the wheel (usually when moving half a mile an hour or less) until Noah decided that freaking out about it was his new mission in life.

The first time it happened, I thought it would be fun to egg on this annoying little quirk in my son, so I began singing and holding my arms in the air like I just didn’t care.

I mean. What’s the point of having a new car with perfect alignment if not to drive without my hands on the wheel?

This did not help my life.

It did, however, ramp up his constant state of car anxiety by a gigapanic. He could see every microsecond that took place while I switched between driving with my right hand and my left hand and he would start screaming and/or crying. Because nothing makes a Mommy a better driver than a needlessly wailing five-year-old.

As I was driving out of the Chick-Fil-A drive-through (at a quarter mile an hour) and handing the children their bags of food, he began crying and yelling “Don’t drive right now!!! PLEAAAAAAASE!!!”

After the fifteenth time of telling him to never mention that my hands weren’t on the steering wheel again, he adopted the habit of simply growling quietly.

His anxiety also bleeds over into his life ambitions…such as this conversation we had.

“When I grow up I want to shoot fireworks.”

“Okay buddy.”

“But I don’t know how to.”

“You can read on the internet how to do it.”

“But I don’t know how to read.”

“You will when you’re grown up.”

“But where IS the internet?”

“You know what I’ll just teach you how to shoot fireworks.”

“Okay.”

And he has many questions about the future, too. Questions I do try to answer with the best of my abilities.

Noah: “Mom, what does voting really mean?”

[I explain the entire democratic system]

Noah: “Well, [Redacted toddler friend] says voting is showing our booty and that isn’t nice.”

…It doesn’t take much to imagine the conversation that particular friend overheard her dad having about voters showing their booty.

But Noah’s greatest talent, by far, is his ability to always plant his elbows firmly into my boobs.

Whether he’s in my lap and sitting up, or crawling into my lap, or I’m three rooms away and there’s no need for elbow-to-boob contact of any kind, he slays me. Literally. And it’s not like I haven’t told him every single time to never ever plant his elbows into my chest ever ever again, but apparently, elbows have no long-term memory.

Right now, because I’m still not allowed to lift him, his use of elbows to lift himself has become even more pronounced.

Which is how we reached the climax of our elbow/boob misunderstandings.

I was laying on my bed first thing in the morning, and he came in to cuddle with me/beg me for breakfast. Instead of going around to the other side of the bed like a NORMAL HUMAN, he decided to lift himself up and over me.

Instead of pushing on the bed with his palms to lift himself like a NORMAL HUMAN, he planted an elbow in each boob and lifted his entire 48 pound body with a double-elbow-to-boob deadlift as if he was going to use them to javelin over me.

(And they totally felt like javelins, lemme tell you.)

…Except that he didn’t seem to know how to transition from hanging from his elbows to climbing onto the bed, so he just hung there, looking at me expectantly.

In the eternal second during which my boobs were being ground into my spinal column, my thoughts went as follows,

“THE PAAAAAIN!!! Oh crap I can’t lift him over me I’m gonna die I’m gonna die right here whatdoIdo to get this kid and his pickaxe elbows OFF MY BOOBS RIGHT NOW!?!?!”

My survival instincts kicked in and completely eclipsed my nurturing mother instincts. Without processing what was happening, I grabbed his shoulders and in one move, shoved him off of the bed.

MOMMY. FAIL.

He landed a few feet away in a clump, and I looked down in horror at what I had just done (okay really I was just hoping that this finally taught him to respect the boobs.)

He started crying and climbed up onto the bed (this time with no boob contact) to be comforted, but not without giving me a shocked and accusatory look. After a full examination, I was able to determine that his feet got a bit rug-burned from the fall.

(But this rug-burned feet recovered way faster than my boobs, so there’s that.)

Since I know his Book of Blame has an extremely long-term memory and he’ll be saying “Hey Mom remember that time you threw me off the bed?” for the next fifteen years, we’ll see if that helps his elbows remember the lesson from the moment.

…But if I had to bet on it, I’d say they did not.

Second Time’s a Charm

February 17, 2016February 17, 2016 Rachel Callahan Chris, Guest Post, Running, Storytime

Guest Post by Chris the Husband.

Last year about this time, I ran a full marathon for the first time – with a disgusting sinus infection in a light rain – and called it a win. I finished without being miserable. This, boys and girls, is why we train – not only so we survive the challenge, whatever it is, but so we don’t have to feel miserable afterward.

Its been a whole year, and I haven’t gotten any slimmer, but I have kept running. And I’ve gotten faster. So this year, I had a goal in mind – to shave a LOT of time off of the Mercedes Marathon. Last year, I just wanted to finish, so I took it easy. This year, I wanted to see what I could do.

In pretty much all of my life, a pound of preparation is worth far more than an ounce of hassle, so I joyfully strategize and plan details to optimize everything. In marathon terms, it means several things.

It means that Rachel gets full credit for booking a last minute hotel room for Valentine’s Day within 100 yards of the starting line.

It means my fitness plan included a Tour of Italy at 2:00pm the day before to go along with soup, breadsticks, and Alfredo sauce.

It means going to bed really early, not too long after watching the sun set behind the silent course, marked and waiting.

It means getting up early enough the day of the race to go to the bathroom so many times that the trips get named after Star Wars movies.

3:45 Wake up before alarm. The Phantom Menace.

4:00 Study weather [as if.] Drink full bottle of water.

4:15 Drink first cup of coffee. Attack of the Clones.

4:30 Do awkward stretches in the dark.

4:45 Think about breakfast. Revenge of the Sith.

5:00 Eat oatmeal with brown sugar. Bring breakfast to wife.

5:15 Second cup of coffee. A New Hope.

5:30 Lubricate everything with Body Glide.

5:45 Re-evaluate wardrobe choices. The Empire Strikes Back.

6:00 Chapstick everything that doesn’t have Body Glide.

6:15 Actually get dressed. Return of the Jedi.

6:30 Start to head to the race. Nope. The Force Awakens.

6:45 Group photo.

7:03 Run.

The actual running part is not terribly interesting for you, the reader, so I’ll spare you all of that. There were some really bright moments. Some of my Birmingham Track Club Saturday Morning Long Run people were working a water stop at Railroad Park, and familiar faces are always a pick-me-up. Plus, you have to make it look good for your friends, because they will take pictures of you and post them – so you best be smiling.

Photo Credit: Bob Sims, BTC Water Stop Volunteer

Last year, I took several handfuls of gummy bears from volunteers along the course, trying to baby myself through the race, but this year, with a vast 1 marathon under my belt, I took a few more chances.

The Birmingham Ultra Trail Society (BUTS) is another fine organization that operates a water stop, and they are somewhat notorious for their varied offerings to weary runners. On my first pass around mile 10, I got high-fives, smiling familiar faces, and a miracle.

A face I can’t remember extended a plate in my direction. I looked down, and thought I had lost my mind.

That can’t be. It looks like – is that – ? – it is.

I reached out with my sweaty gloved hand, and grabbed a perfectly reasonable handful of bacon. After a shocked thanks, as I kept running, I lifted my hand to my mouth, and in that cold morning air, that fresh, hot, greasy, salty bacon was the best thing I have ever put in my mouth.

The second time I passed them, 13 miles later, I took the heart-shaped Little Debbie cakes, also delightful. Not bacon-level, but still much needed and fantastic for getting icing on your lips to keep licking off for the last few miles.

I pushed myself hard on the second loop of the course, and I did it. I took 35 minutes off of my time from last year. Thank you again, bacon. As I came in to Linn Park, my dear sweet wife and several running friends were waiting and cheering for me – I so do not deserve any of these people.

I finished the race, slowed to a staggering walk, got my medal, my swag bag, and started peeling off my toboggan and gloves. I grabbed a Powerade bottle and shuffled to the exit gate, pausing for a second to have the staff mark my bib.

Less than one minute from the finish line, the moment I emerged through the gate onto the sidewalk, swaying like a leaf in a gentle breeze, a well-meaning lady caught my eye from 12 inches away. “Excuse me, would you take our picture??”

I almost didn’t believe she meant me. My heart was pounding, my hands were full. But here she was, handing me the phone. I lifted it with my swag and junk loaded hands, and tried to stabilize myself while the five of them posed.

I took a second look at them. And a third. The runner in their soon to be well-focused and carefully taken picture was the apparent twin of my ex-girlfriend from 18 years ago. Whatever. I managed to tap the screen a few times and smile at them as I handed their phone back.

I found Rachel, and off we went into the post-race party to get Jim n Nicks BBQ and celebrate. I got my food, and headed to the sauce/pickle table. Lemme tell you, runners, just because you ran a marathon does not mean that the rules of polite society are completely gone. There were 2 giant bowls of scratch-made pickles, each with its own tongs. And the dude in front of me grabbed a stack of pickle slices with the tongs and went straight to his pie hole with it. BOGUS. PARTY. FOUL.

I got my pickles from the other bowl.

I could bore you with my time and and pace, but instead, here are fun statistics:

Fitbit Steps in my marathon: 41,345.

Lose It calorie credit for my marathon: –3,828.

Trips to the bathroom during the race: 0.

New members of the Birmingham Ultra Trail Society: 1.

Let me say, if you didn’t read last year’s post, or if you did, you can do this. I’m 39 and over 200 pounds. If you start slow and train properly, you can do this. There is a welcoming community in your town ready and willing to encourage and push you to do things you would never do on your own.

Editor’s Note: He’s right. You can do it. But it might be helpful in meeting your goals if you don’t have a littering aversion like our daughter.