Rachel Callahan

Half Notes.

March 11, 2015March 10, 2015 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Just My Luck, Running

Okay.

You guys have put up with not one, but two posts about running races in the past two weeks.

And I am well aware of how obnoxious runners are to non-runners. I was a staunch non-runner for 32.75 years and had zero intentions of ever becoming a runner and would’ve totally told that joke, “Hey. How do you know if someone is a runner? Don’t worry – they’ll tell you!”

…Until my stupid Dysautonomia got bad enough that I was willing to attempt the one thing I didn’t want to do to help it – and it worked so well and so instantaneously that I’ve run nearly daily for the last nine months.

So I get it. And I promise not to write another race post.

With that said, I went out of town with Chris last weekend to r*ce in my first h*lf m*rathon.

(See? This is about a date weekend away. Not another r*ce.)

We are experts at planning trips away the weekend of Daylight Savings Time, because we totally get to skip the adjustment by sleeping in with no children.

(And stick it to my parents, who have to deal with losing an hour with our kids.)

(Sorry Mom and Dad.)

So we skipped town around lunchtime on Friday and drove to Tuscaloosa. We did what you’re supposed to before a r*ce and ate giant plates of pasta with Chris’ brother Joey and sister-in-law Heather, who were going to be r*cing with us.

This was the juncture at which Chris thought it was time to mention to me that our r*ce started at 7 the next morning.

SEVEN.

A.freaking.M.

And I was talked into this trip based on being able to skip losing an hour. And then they tell me I have to get up at who-knows-what-time to go stand out in the freezing morning air so that I can pay good money to do what I could do for free later that afternoon in the nice warm sunshine?

I now see why people hate runners.

Because runners are stupid.

But I played along. I woke up on a Saturday morning in the 5 o’clock hour (that should not even exist on Saturday morning), pulled on my leggings as pants (I admit it – they make me feel like a superhero) and might have called my husband a “frickin’ idiot” when we walked out of the hotel into the 27° morning air.

Naturally, my car was also not ready for such early-morning torture, and was snoring under a thick blanket of frost.

Chris asked if I had an ice scraper.

“No, but remember? I learned that defrost actually *de-frosts your windshields* last year!! It’s so cool. Let’s just wait on that!”

But this was the first r*ce I’d ever run with my husband. And I learned that he is indeed quite antsy on r*ce mornings.

So he rooted around in my Chick-fil-a-covered back seat floorboards, found the most scraperish thing available (a DVD case), and began leaving claw marks across my windshield while I went back to muttering under my breath about his insanity.

This is how Alabamians scrape ice, y’all.

I then noticed that the sun was rising behind us and was all like, “ooh! We should drive back there just for a minute and take a picture!”, to which Chris said, “You DO realize that we’re not supposed to show up at the race right when it starts, correct?”

Oh yeah.

The Race Day Antsies.

But being the good husband that he is, he drove me backwards for approximately 100 feet before promptly turning around and heading toward the starting line.

We arrived, and it was inhumanely cold. Serbian Serfs wouldn’t have to work in this weather. But I found a sunny spot and stood in it, ignoring the fact that my feet were slowly freezing onto the pavement, because at least the big ball of light was keeping my eyelashes from icing over.

About ten minutes before r*ce time, I realized I needed to pee.

Of course.

So I joined the long line at the port-a-potties to wait my turn. When I was three people back, a hot blond with thigh gap came bursting out of one of them.

She looked around wildly and said to all three dozen of us waiting, “I would NOT go in there! It is JACKED UP!”

This was a first for me – a hot blond with thigh gap admitting to jacking up a bathroom, however portable it may be.

And then she finished her thought.

“I got stuck in there! The lock would not unlock! I had to beat on the door and shake it up and down to get it open!”

Well now. That does make more sense.

Finally, two minutes before race time, it was my turn in the long line of rubber poo boxes. And guess which one was vacant – just in time.

Yup. Jacked Up.

I ever so barely locked Jacked Up. And God Shined Down Upon Me that morning when Jacked Up opened without trouble.

I ran to the starting line, found Chris, Joey and Heather, and explained about the horrors of Jacked Up – just before the r*ce began.

In the chaos of the starting line and my recovery from Jacked Up, Chris and I somehow got ahead of Joey and Heather. Chris kept looking back for them, but the crowd was too thick. So at the one mile mark, he gave me a choice.

“You can either take off and run as fast as you want, or you can go back with me to find Joey and Heather.”

“Um. You just said ‘go back’. What exactly do you mean when you say ‘go back’ and do you realize this is a r*ce?”

(Note: Chris is a much nicer person than me.)

“I just mean walk for a bit until we can find them.”

”Walk. In my first h*lf m*rathon. I love you and I love Joey and Heather but I CANNOT WALK.”

“Then go. Be free. Have fun!”

So I took off. And my Type-A-Competitive-Spirit unleashed within me as I began gleefully passing person after person, sizing them up to see if they were in my age bracket and hoping that they were. Every time a runner in front of me took a short walk break, I pounced upon them like a hungry Hyena discovering a nearly dead animal.

I’m a terrible person. A terrible, horrible, over-competitive person.

I quickly found out that I could not drink while running, and I refused to walk through the water stops. So I began skipping them.

Hydration is for sissies. And I had sissies to pass.

I finally allowed myself to walk for about thirty feet when my hip started hurting at mile 11, and then I walked through the final water break, despite the wretched feeling of my opponents passing on the left.

I finished at 2:14:39, in 473rd place. I so wanted to be first. But I was just barely (over an hour) late for that.

I received my medal, and all I could think about was how embarrassing it would be for any Auburn fan runners.

I’m surprised they weren’t yelling “Roll Tide” as we crossed the finish line.

Chris and I went back to our hotel room, which was on the University of Alabama campus, to de-salt our bodies. This was the point that I began to hurt.

No normal running aches and pains – no, not for me. I got the world’s most uncomfortable stomachache. Which turned our day in Tuscaloosa into a day in the hotel where I alternately napped, moaned, and googled appendicitis.

Apparently, you can shake a bowel loose if you r*n too fast.

We finally left for a while, when Chris bought me Pepto Bismol and a thermometer and repeatedly asked if I wanted to go to the ER. But it was sunset. And you can’t go to the ER during sunset.

While we were watching the sun set into Bryant-Denny stadium like an egg dropping into a frying pan, a red Ford Explorer careened by, hitting a light pole or curb as it did. A few seconds later, a police car flew through the same intersection, sirens blaring.

NO. WAY.

We were witnessing our first police chase.

More sirens clouded the air, and the Explorer only made it another couple blocks, where he {quite conveniently} crashed into a rehab center.

The excitement was palpable, and I’m sure the chase had nothing to do with the legions of fraternity parties going on just a block away, all of their stately colonial mansions enshrouded in security trash bags.

We went back to our hotel room and watched back-to-back Adam Sandler movies, listened to the frat parties wafting bad versions of “Uptown Funk” through the windows, and I laid, still in pain, insisting it would be better by morning.

And I am happy to report that shaken-up bowels absolutely do rearrange overnight – even on nights when you lose an hour to Daylight Savings Time.

The Model’s Commentary.

March 9, 2015March 8, 2015 Rachel Callahan HauteLook, Utter Silliness

I admit it. I do so much shopping on Hautelook (okay – all of my shopping), that I’ve gotten to know the models.

Each one and I have a special bond. I especially appreciate their ability to show me their true feelings about the clothes they model – because HauteLook has some awesome stuff, and they have some awful stuff. The models speak subtly with their eyes, as if they’re whispering it just to me so that their photographer can’t hear.

One of these lace shirts will make you happy and peaceful. The other will give you PMS.

Recently, I’ve gotten to know two models particularly well. Let’s call them Shelby and Chloe.

Their thoughts have been louder than usual, and I felt that they might need documenting.

Let’s start with Shelby.

Shelby’s kind of in a bad place right now…

That’s because I am NOT Wendy and I am NOT starring in a live-action filming of Peter Pan and WHAT ARE THESE THINGS THEY’VE ROPED TO MY FEET!?

Thanks, but I prefer to not wear my shower curtain.

If you’re going to make me look like Cindy Lou Who, at least give me cool hair.

This dress is camouflage. BARK camouflage. Just in case someone wants to go strapless while hunting grubs?

Oh hooray. I can get mistaken for the technician next time I take my dog to the vet.

Seriously. Seriously? This shirt looks like a mistake. From every angle. Even my thigh gap can’t fix this.

I can’t even.

Why do you hate me.

You found these shoes in the gardening department of Wal-Mart. Didn’t you.

So you’re saying you’re trying to pass this off as a…dress….

I quit, guys. I. Quit.

Many of us can relate to Shelby, who has landed in the employment mire of resentful resignation and acceptance, and has begun to look for a new job.

But now lets meet Chloe, who is still in a state of bewilderment at the ensembles arranged for her like a toddler with a milk crate full of Barbie clothes.

DO YOU SEE WHAT IS ON MY FEET. 1998 is on my feet.

In what world do these four pieces of clothing look normal together. I look like that crazy lady who works down at the DMV.

These pants come with a coupon for 20% off your first month at Retirement Village!

I have a 24 inch waist. TWENTY FOUR. Do you even KNOW how many carbs I gave up for that? And then you do THIS to it?!

Did you just make my belly button look off-centered? Because I think you made my belly-button look off-centered.

Please tell me you’ll be airbrushing.

I hate you so hard right now.

Let’s all take a moment to acknowledge: modeling isn’t as glamorous as we imagined. And let’s add Shelby and Chloe’s job search to our prayer lists.

Seven Days To Myself.

March 6, 2015March 5, 2015 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life

Oh my goodness, guys.

I took an entire week off of writing.

Like, I didn’t write a single thing, nor did I think about writing a single thing.

(Okay except for a quick giveaway post. But that doesn’t count.)

And it was glorious.

I mean, I love writing (which is convenient since this is my 1,950th post), but the pressure does get to me sometimes…especially when I have other things also stressing me out.

(And you might have picked up on a tiiiiiny bit of stress in my voice in this post. Or maybe this one. Or this one or this one.)

So I took the week and I got all of the other things accomplished and moved out of my mind. And if I could have a “before and after picture” of My Feelings, I could create a direct sales company and take over your Facebook feed because I’m so new and shiny on the inside and you would totally want your insides to be just as new and shiny.

And oh, the things I can accomplish when I’m not writing, and when my mind isn’t mulling over what I’m going to be writing.

Since I know you’re just dying for a comprehensive list, here’s what I did with my free time:

1. Taxes. Our taxes are the most freaking complicated thing possible – I’m convinced of it. They’re so awful that I, with my accounting degree, must spend hours preparing so that I can then pass them off to our actual accountant to process them.

The need to do my part has been hanging over my head since January 1. So on Monday, I spent five solid hours knocking it out.

If feelings had weight, I lost 80 pounds that day.

2. A Coloring Book. In 2010, I made a coloring book of all the kids in our small group. I was asked for a 2015 reprisal of this project, which required me nagging eight moms (plus myself) to get pictures of our twenty-nine children (when you put it like that, it doesn’t sound like such a small group), and then converting the pictures into coloring pages, loading them into a book maker, and getting them ready to print.

Spoiler – somewhere between 2010 and 2015 our kids grew up.

3. Girl’s Trip – My husband recommended that I also plan a No-Kids-Moms-Only trip with those Moms of the twenty-nine children. So I worked out the details for all that could attend, booked a house at Gorham’s Bluff, and in a month, several of us will be sipping coffee and looking at this:

…with no one asking us for a snack or when dinner will be ready or to please help them get their underwear off so they can go to the bathroom.

4. Kid’s Market – I’ve already blogged about the first half of my consigning adventures, but I had to finish tagging all of my wares and actually deliver them all to the sale.

Which was in itself an adventure.

I’m pretty sure there were 80mph winds to go along with the puddles throughout the parking lot (in which three of my oh-so-carefully tagged items ended up). There were also impossible-to-control loading racks, and….it was our job to sort our stuff.

Who knew?

If I’d known, perhaps I wouldn’t have mixed it all up so thoroughly.

Pro Tip: Always have a helpful eight-year-old with you when delivering consignment goods. I don’t think I could’ve done it without Ali there at which to yell “HURRY GRAB THAT OUT OF THE PUDDLE!!” and “DON’T LET THE CART HIT THAT CAR!!!!” and “Sort these 150 hangers of clothes by size!”

The jury is still out as to whether it was all worth it. I’ll offer a full financial report after I get my check.

5. Note Cards – Aside from my Valentine’s project, I took the month of February off from Picture Birmingham. It wasn’t intentional, I was just sapped – most likely from the fact that someone in my family was sick literally 28 out of 28 days last month. But the last two Sundays were our Missions Conference at church, and The WellHouse was one of the organizations we were celebrating.

I went to the Sunday School class that Alexa from The WellHouse spoke in, and oh my goodness. I can only hear her stories about once every three months because it messes me up so deeply. I was so devastated all over again by the horrors of sex trafficking that I cried on and off all day (and I’m not a crier). It’s horrifying to hear of the deceptive lengths that traffickers are going to in order to trick young teens into being trapped and stolen from their lives. I do want to write a post about this, but it will have to come separately so that I can properly disclaim it so that you’re in the right frame of mind to have the crap scared out of you.

Anyway, I had the crap scared out of me.

And I was reinvigorated to do everything I could possibly do to help The WellHouse protect our children. So I finally finished a project I’ve been working on for a year – two new sets of note cards that give a tour of my city and state in the most beautiful way I could muster.

The Birmingham set shows Birmingham’s landmarks, both old and new, as well as the skyline from five different angles.

And the Alabama set takes a tour of the natural wonders of Alabama (and I totally cheated – there’s one picture of Georgia.)

I’m pretty thrilled with the way these note cards turned out, and I’m even more excited that everyone else seems to be, too – in the first two days, 27 sets were sold! 100% of the profits from these note cards and all products at Picture Birmingham go to The WellHouse. I would love to provide for multiple women to be rescued from sex trafficking this month, so you will officially become my favorite blog reader if you feel led to shop at Picture Birmingham.

(And I know – shipping is high for people outside of Birmingham – darn UPS – so just for you, since you’re my favorite blog reader and all, use the coupon code “favorite” to get free shipping in March.)

6. Helping my Mother – I went to her Cubbies class last night and took pictures of TWENTY-SIX three and four-year-olds dressed up for Missions Conference. Twenty-six. Photographed individually and as a group. Of course, of all 26, my four-year-old was least cooperative.

And then what did my Mom do? She sent them all home with punching balloons.

PUNCHING BALLOONS.

I don’t know how I forgot to asterisk my hatred of balloons with * and punching balloons are the marriage of every bad characteristic of every children’s toy ever created. They’re manufactured directly in Satan’s lair.

I love my mother but we’re now even on the whole “she gave me life” thing.

7. Quality Time – Chris and I had two dates and even watched a movie at home one night – something we haven’t done in at least a year. I picked it totally randomly from Netflix, and it ended up being pretty good – In Your Eyes. As long as you don’t mind a good dose of suspension of disbelief. And telepathy. But I approve.

So that’s what I did this week. And I’m pretty happy about it.

Oh. And…what didn’t I get done this week?

The dishes.

But I’m cool with that.

Anyway. Thanks for the week off, guys. It was nearly as effective as a trip to Fiji.

Okay no it wasn’t. But it was great.

A Tale of Two Mercedes.

March 3, 2015March 3, 2015 Rachel Callahan Chris, Guest Post, Running

A Guest Post by Chris the Husband.

Mercedes and I have a history. We loved, and we lost. Ingrid, wherever she is now, is a 2002 SLK AMG, a two-seat retractable hardtop convertible with 350HP. I cling to the happy memories, and think of her fondly when the Spring peeks through the cracks in Winter’s wall.

I’ve been running weekly for 12 years now, nearly always alone, but it takes me a while to reach new heights. Only a few months before I bought Ingrid, in February 2012, I ran my first half-marathon. The local premiere race series in Birmingham is the Mercedes Marathon Weekend, a 5K, children’s events, a half, and a full marathon.

I enjoyed the experience, but after 13.1 miles on that cold morning 3 years ago, I was exhausted, nauseous, and nearly fainted at the finish line after stopping suddenly. I didn’t believe people my size, my age, and my historical activity level could ever live going around the loop again – the Full Mercedes is a double-loop course – so the average half-marathoner gets lapped by the motorcade accompanying the full marathon leaders, generally an exceptionally fit and lanky bunch who are totally killing it running 5 minute miles and blowing past all the water stops.

I was content to be a running loner, and a half-marathoner, and went on about my life, bought the aforementioned convertible at a delightfully depreciated price, and rode off into the sunset on a daily basis.

Fourteen months later, after waving goodbye to Ingrid, who was happily in the hands of another man, I was a newbie member of the Birmingham Track Club, in particular a new regular attender of the Saturday Morning Long Run group that meets at 6am on Saturday mornings at the Trak Shak on 18th Street in Homewood, right down the hill from Vulcan.

This is a diverse group of weekend warriors – from easy going 13:00/mile folks to 6:00/mile shirtless guys – and everyone in between. Feel free to come out and run with us anytime. I can’t thank them enough for the friends they’ve become, the encouragement to push myself, or the passion I got to try the unthinkable – the Full Mercedes Marathon.

6000 people start the race, and 4500 stop at 13.1 miles. The rest go around again, with less company, less energy, less pomp, and less circumstance.

The long, lonely second lap was a mountain I wanted to climb.

By now it was the fall of 2013, and although I wanted to – I already mentioned I’m a slow burn on new levels of achievement – I didn’t think I could get ready by February, so I made a year-ahead commitment to run the marathon in 2015, to give me a whole year with the track club to develop my base ahead of the marathon training season.

I stuck with it for all of 2014, and the scorching heat of August with its dripping wet running clothes faded into the marathon training season and rainy December Saturdays doing 17 miles in wet squishing shoes, also with dripping wet running clothes.

The longest training run I did was 22 miles, and for much of it my sore legs made me doubt my endurance, but I was determined to finish the full marathon – walking, crawling, or otherwise.
Race week rolled around, and with a gross sinus infection not getting any better, I got shots on Saturday and began antibiotics before a light supper and an early bedtime. I had only been on antibiotics for about 21 hours when the race started, so my apologies to any runners who grabbed a handful of gummy bears or Vaseline or both out the same bowls that I did.

Sunday morning brought a light rain and a mild temperature, better than the storms forecast earlier in the week. I had no time or pace goals for this day – merely to survive – so I ran at a comfortable pace, whatever that meant at the time, and I crossed the finish line 5 hours and 18 minutes later, with a group of BTC friends waiting and cheering, escorting me in, videoing, and high-fiving.

I wasn’t about to die. I wasn’t nauseous. I didn’t want to faint. I could have kept going. I felt far better this day than I had 3 years before after half the distance.

All 38 years and 200 pounds of me crossed the finish line of a full marathon with breath and energy to spare. The chubby 2nd grader in my yearbook cannot believe it. So the truth is, a bunch of you people could totally do this. Maybe not on your own, but with a little help from your friends.

And I’m at peace with Ingrid. I wish her well in her new life. I’m Team Mercedes all the way.

It’s Time To Visit Thomas. {Giveaway!}

March 2, 2015March 2, 2015 Rachel Callahan Giveaways and Contests

Visiting Thomas the Train has been a long-standing tradition in our household, starting in the ancient year of 2009.

Each Spring, Day Out With Thomas rolls into the station in Calera, Alabama, and we highly anticipate our drive out to visit him.

Ali was a hipster before hipsters were cool (which is actually the definition of a hipster, right?), so she was a female Thomas Fangirl long before she had a brother to blame it on.

Noah adopted his sister’s love, compounded by the natural attraction between boys and trains, making him quite obsessed.

I draw at least a dozen trains a week for him, along with tracks and smoke. And with many of them, he asks when we’ll be visiting Thomas again.

Because Thomas is his happy place.

I mean seriously – on our last visit, his life had never been better than this moment.

NEVER, I tell you.

And Ali, despite her older, more sophisticated ways, still has a special place in her heart for Thomas, as well.

A girl never forgets her first love.

This year, Thomas will be rolling up into Calera April 10-19. We’re already counting down the days until our visit, and Thomas graciously offered tickets for one of you as well!

I have a family four-pack of tickets to give away for Sunday, April 19th at 3:00, worth $84!

(And by the way – if you’re not from around here, I don’t have tickets for you, but you can check the Day Out With Thomas schedule to see when he’s coming your way.)

Along with a 25 minute train ride aboard one of the vintage rail cars being pulled by Thomas himself, you will get to meet Sir Topham Hatt, enjoy checking out all of the trains at the Heart of Dixie Railroad Museum, and take part in all sorts of Thomas and Friends fun including putt-putt golf, a jumpstation, a bubble station, temporary tattoos, storytelling, videos, live music, and more.

(You need to get there about an hour early to get your tickets, enjoy the other activities, and be ready when they call for you to board.)

To enter, simply comment on the post and tell me which is your kid’s favorite Thomas and Friends character (besides Thomas. I promise – he won’t get jealous.)

This giveaway is open until Wednesday, March 11, and I will email and post the winner on my Giveaway Winner’s Page on March 12.

Best of luck!

Disclosure: I was given a four-pack of tickets for our family to go visit Thomas, also. But no worries – all opinions are my own (or my kid’s, in this case), and we would have been going to see Thomas either way. Because he’s awesome like that.

If My Life Were a Children’s Book.

February 27, 2015February 26, 2015 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, It's Tough Being a Girl, Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience.

Friday

If you want to get a haircut, you ask your Mother-In-Law to come watch the kids.

If your Mother-in-Law comes to watch the kids, your youngest is sure to ham it up and play especially sick.

If your youngest hams it up and plays especially sick, she will tell you he didn’t get off the couch all morning.

If she tells you he didn’t get off the couch all morning, you will take his temperature and decide he needs to go to the doctor – before the weekend.

If you decide he needs to go to the doctor, you will take him in – despite the impending “Wintry Mix” and possible ice storms.

If you take him in, he will miraculously become healed in the Sick Waiting Room.

If he miraculously becomes healed in the Sick Waiting Room, he will have to touch, rub, and become one with all the surfaces.

If he becomes one with all the surfaces, you will become very anxious.

If you become very anxious, he will become further energized by your anxiety.

If he becomes further energized by your anxiety, he will begin jumping and screaming maniacally.

If he begins jumping and screaming maniacally, he will attract the attention of the other children in the Sick Waiting Room.

If he attracts the attention of the other children in the Sick Waiting Room, they will begin to play together.

If they begin to play together, your anxiety will triple.

If your anxiety triples, they will amp up their game to running around a column while rubbing their hands, cheeks, and possibly tongues around it like they were seeing how many germs it takes to reach the center of a column.

If they amp up their game to seeing how many germs it takes to reach the center of a column, you will begin listening to their Grandmother’s phone call to try and ascertain what they’re in for.

If you try and ascertain what they’re in for, you will learn that their sister is currently being observed to see if she needs to go back to the hospital for her raging and incurable stomach virus.

If you learn that their sister is currently being observed to see if she needs to go back to the hospital for her raging and incurable stomach virus, your anxiety will give you a facial tic so extreme that the kids in the Well Waiting Room will think you’re winking at them.

If you get facial tic so extreme that the kids in the Well Waiting Room think you’re winking at them, you will try to mitigate the future germ damage to your household by restraining your toddler.

If you try to mitigate the future germ damage to your household by restraining your toddler, his wiggling and fighting will make the seconds tick by so slowly that you are convinced the best course of action for your ongoing sanity is to get up and leave.

If you become convinced the best course of action for your ongoing sanity is to get up and leave, right before you do, you will get called back (after one hour and fifteen minutes of Sick Waiting Room Seventh Layer of Hell.)

If you finally get called back, you will, in a fit of anxiety-induced-word-vomit, tell your doctor of all of your trials in the waiting room.

If you tell your doctor of all of your trials in the waiting room, you will follow up by asking her if she happens to have any dissolvable anxiety pills on her.

If you follow up by asking her if she happens to have any dissolvable anxiety pills on her, your toddler will once again be energized by your admittance of the A word, and will yell, “All Aboard!!”, because, you see, he is the Train Conductor.

If your toddler plays Train Conductor with the stirrups, you will stop to tweet the moment, during which your toddler will seize the opportunity to find a well-hidden stray cup of water left by another child.

If your toddler finds a well-hidden stray cup of water, you will nearly break your nose (again) trying to tackle him before it reaches his lips.

At this point, you will begin praying for quick and painless deaths for each of your family members, as it is clear that all of your days are severely numbered.

Later Friday

After a nap (because after that visit there was no way you were doing anything else before naptime), you go to the pharmacy to fill your son’s prescription.

If you go to the pharmacy to fill your son’s prescription, the pharmacist will sympathize with you and tell you that she, too, has been sick for a week – with a really difficult strain of strep throat – and will cough, right before she mixes your son’s antibiotic.

If she coughs into your son’s antibiotic, you will again begin praying for quick and painless deaths for all of you – and maybe a slightly painful one for her.

Saturday

Your husband has to go to the doctor and gets two shots and a prescription.

Sunday

You and your daughter fall to illness.

Tuesday, Too Late to Go To The Doctor

Your illness worsens, now including a fever.

Wednesday

Your illness most definitely needs a doctor, but the entire city is shut down for the snowstorm that you’ve wanted all year long, so you tough it out and eagerly look forward to the distraction of a beautiful, thick white snow.

If you look forward to a snow, it will not come. And you will wait for eight hours, blowing your nose on every soft disposable surface in your house, not daring to leave due to impending doom, while it rains.

If you wait for eight hours while it rains, you will watch the wall-to-wall snow news all day long in hopes of an encouraging word about when you will get snow, but all you will see are thousands of happy snowstormees who live ever-so-slightly north of you.

If you see happy snowstormees, you will become not happy. But you will still wait, while it rains.

It gets dark, and it rains.

It gets darker, and your power goes out.

Then it starts snowing.

The children will hurry out in their snow gear, eager to make snowmen and snow angels and snow cream. Meanwhile, you hold the flashlight and jog in place on the porch so as to not let your feverish chills overtake you.

You get maybe a quarter inch of snow. That will melt by morning.

Meanwhile, you continue to be inundated by everyone else’s amazing snowstorm dreams, while your own dreams are delirious because…fever.

Thursday

If you didn’t get the snowstorm you so hoped for, you will look at the bright side – that you can finally go to the doctor.

If you finally go to the doctor, the exhaustion from the week will overcome you and you will accidentally cry.

If you accidentally cry, your doctor will offer you antidepressants.

If your doctor offers you antidepressants, you will consider asking him for dissolvable anxiety pills for the next Pediatrician’s visit, and then wonder if he could instead prescribe you a trip to Fiji…

While you’re wondering if your doctor can prescribe you a trip to Fiji, one of your kids gets all cozy and places their lips near a surface, almost assuredly picking up a new germ.

If your kid picks up a new germ, the cycle starts all over again.

And by the time it’s done, it’s most likely time for you to get another haircut.

Superheroes on the Run.

February 24, 2015February 24, 2015 Rachel Callahan Kids: The Experience., Running, The Blissfulness of Life

Ali has been running with me since last summer, and she’s shown a surprising amount of proficiency at it, along with enjoying it most of the time (that may be due to the fact that we usually run to the candy store, but no matter. We all run for chocolate, am I right?)

A couple of months ago I got the idea that it would be fun to run a race with her. Maybe she’d like the Color Run – what kid doesn’t want to throw paint everywhere?

Oh yeah – my kid.

“I don’t mind running with you, Mommy, but I don’t really want to get all messy.”

Fair enough.

So the next logical conclusion was to run in the Superhero 5K – it’s part of the Mercedes Marathon Weekend, so we would get to run the day before Chris ran his first marathon. It seemed right – nay, familyish – to all run in the same weekend.

(Except Noah. Who made it quite clear that he had no interest in running with anyone for any reason.)

So we signed up and, since it was a Superhero race, began modifying our Lego Movie Halloween costumes into running clothes.

(Because I did not wear leggings as pants to my Church’s trunk and treat. Nobody wants to see that much trunk to get their treat.)

I also felt a little weird putting makeup on for a race, but WyldStyle is not the type of girl that would leave her hot pink lipstick behind just because she might do a little running.

Plus, those freckles weren’t going to paint themselves.

The whole family got up early for the race (seriously – we had to wake Ali and Noah up at around seven A.M. – they had no idea people woke up at that time of day), and then Chris and a sleepy Noah dropped us off a block away in the very windy, cold, and flirting-with-rain morning.

(It was 42 degrees, for those Northerners who would like to mock us.)

We hurried to the Boutwell Auditorium to warm up before the race, where a photographer found us and told us to pose like superheroes

Apparently Ali’s superhero needs to pee. Or is a superhero ballerina. Or both.

Within minutes, we heard the call to the starting line. We headed outside and were once again met with the wind. As we jumped in place to stay warm, it began to rain.

Ali looked at me with her giant, frightened eyes and said, “Why is it RAINING, Mommy??”

As if there’s a good answer to that question.

Being that I am not enough of a homeschool Mom to go into The Water Cycle three minutes before a race begins, I promised her it would quit soon, prayed that I was right, and got back to my jumping in place.

It turned out that I was indeed right, and the droplets ended soon after. It was still the coldest Ali had ever run in, so there were occasional complaints about breathing in the cold air.

And the frigid breeze.

And the wet roads.

She also wanted to hold my hand while running as much as possible.

But yet, somehow, every time she saw a photographer, she smiled, looked straight at them, and quit holding my hand or looking like she was being tortured with frigidity.

She’s a natural-born racer.

Or at least a perfect poser.

Chris and Noah situated themselves strategically at Railroad Park, where they would see us pass by twice. My Mom met them there to cheer Ali on in her first race.

Although Chris did not go to the trouble of rekindling his role as Lord Business, Noah was absolutely Emmet.

They finally spotted us, and Ali continued her trend of looking like the happiest person on the race course.

Like seriously – you can hardly tell that she’s begging me to let her walk right at that moment.

Noah cheered for us coming and going,

then immediately left the scene to go slide down his favorite hills.

Ali and I proceeded onward, walking some and running most, her asking me to count down the hundredths of the miles until the end of the race.

But the last stretch made it all worth it for her – they were watching for bib numbers and called her name from the loudspeaker, then we received our medals and they made a huge deal over her doing so well, and THEN we even got free blue Powerade.

I’m pretty sure the blue Powerade was the tide turner, and maybe the fact that we were done running.

But whatever it was, she was thrilled, had forgotten all of her complaints, and informed me that she wanted to do another race in three weeks.

…and then we went to the coffee shop for Strawberry Cake.

Because all Superheroes need to be recharged, whether they ran or not.

That afternoon, I had a mini-parent-panic attack when I realized that we left twelve minutes before the awards ceremony, that Ali’s time would have qualified her to place second in her age group in last year’s race times, and that they did not mail trophies.

If my personal racing newbie status disqualified my daughter from getting a trophy AND hearing her name called out at an awards ceremony, the Parent Guilt would never leave me.

I refreshed the race times page like a stalker as I heaped shame upon myself for not fully reading the race material.

Finally, the results posted.

And it was with a huge amount of relief that I saw my daughter was one place away from getting a trophy.

I heaped huge congratulations onto Ali for her fourth place finish, and onto myself for not robbing my daughter of a trophy.

And all was right in the world.

Diary of a Tired Mom: If the Shoe Fits.

February 23, 2015February 23, 2015 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, A Day in the Life, Diary of a Tired Mom

Thursday night, there was a strange man with a high-beam flashlight walking around my front yard.

I never got up to check, nor did I scream for my husband, because I totally assumed that he must be one of Fred the Cat’s dozen or more common-law owners, and he was out looking for Fred to put him inside before the cold snap.

So if I get chopped to pieces by an ax murderer because I was trusting an overly friendly cat, would Alanis Morissette write that into a song about Irony?

(Because it’s not really ironic. And that’s exactly what she likes to write about.)

I inadvertently forgot about a high-ranking item on last week’s list of Things That Make a Parent Crazy, so of course they would throw themselves upon me two days later.

Light-Up Shoes.

Chris and I have a long history of having strong opinions about – differing strong opinions about – children’s shoes.

I prefer funky but understated, fun but not too crazy, and NEVER lights.

He prefers (and will buy if I let him) all manner of bling and cheesiness, lit with flood lights, search beams, strobe lights, lighthouse beams, and disco balls.

Yet, it was I who bought Ali these shoes last week.

Yes, they’re so bright that they illuminate an entire room with an eerie aura, and I have to cover my eyes every step she takes.

It was the lady at Nordstrom Rack’s fault.

I was returning some blue jeans and sent Ali to the shoe department (her favorite shoes had a hole in the toe and no matter how much she tried to convince me that it made them even more comfortable, I insisted they be thrown away), and she came back with these, lights dancing in her eyes (and blinding me).

My reaction was one of uncontained bemusement, naturally.

The clerk returning my jeans looked at me as only a grandmother could and said,

“Now. She will remember those shoes for THE REST OF HER LIFE. They will mean so much to her! And I’m not telling you the batteries will die because they will not. But come on, now. Make her day!”

Ali blinked her eyes innocently, but I was sure I saw her quickly pass $20 to the clerk.

They were on clearance….

And she did love them…

And that blasted clerk had to give me a Mommy Guilt Trip…

So I bought them. And she’s been frantically jumping up and down ever since.

And guess who wants light-up shoes now?

Well yes, her brother obviously, but also her father.

“I’d totally wear light-up shoes!”

Fathers. They’re to blame for the existence of Light-Up Shoes. I’m sure of it.

I haven’t felt bloated lately. It struck me as odd how long it had been…

Until I did laundry.

(Because apparently, I was quite a bit behind.)

And then I had an EARTH-SHATTERING REALIZATION.

What if all the times us ladies think we’re bloated, it’s really just that our blue jeans recently came out of the dryer?

What if the monthly rotation of feeling “bloated” and “skinny” perfectly lines up with our respective laundry schedules, rather than other types of schedules we had previously suspected?

What if it’s not actually us at all???

EARTH-SHATTERING, I tell you.

The following is a transcription of a Pillow Talk conversation between Chris and I. I don’t know why we were talking about Tube Tops. Who knows how any Pillow Talk starts. But it went something like this, starting with Chris…

“Tube Top is a really stupid term.”

“Why? It makes sense. It’s a tube, and it’s a top.”

“I know. But it just sounds stupid.”

“There are way worse names in women’s fashion than the Tube Top.”

“Oh really? Like what?”

“Like the Maxi dress, for one. It sounds like it has an accessory up underneath…”

“Yeah, that’s true…”

“And then there’s The Bootie.”

“THE Bootie? It’s said with a THE?”

“Yup. That’s how it’s always referred to in fashion articles. THE bootie.”

“Wait. We’re not talking about baby booties?”

“No! Women’s short boots are called booties.”

“WHAAAT?? No.”

“Yes.”

“They should just be called short boots.”

“They’re not. They’re called booties.”

“So you’re saying that I could walk into a shoe department and say, ‘Excuse me, I’d like to look at a large selection of Lady’s Booties!’, and I wouldn’t get kicked out?”

“I’m most definitely saying that. The clerk probably wouldn’t blink twice, and she’d answer you with, ‘Certainly, sir. Would you like to see our black booties, our brown booties, or perhaps these beige booties with the spikes?’”

“And then I’d say, ‘No, these are all too pointy-toed. Do you happen to have any big, round booties?’”

“I’m sure she’d find you some round booties.”

“I am SO going to do this next time we go to the mall.”

”I told you Tube Tops weren’t stupid.”

Why I Quit Bathing My Kids.

February 20, 2015February 19, 2015 Rachel Callahan I embarrass myself just for your amusement., I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience., Parent of the Year

My friends of the Daily Child Bather Variety (which thankfully are rare) cannot understand people like me.

They’re still in denial that the facts prove that most people are indeed like me but since I’m open and vocal about my anti-bathing stance, I must take the brunt of their shock.

But here’s a little story to illustrate why, exactly, I only bathe my children twice a week.

Maybe this kind of thing doesn’t happen to the daily bathers. And if so, they should count their blessings and shut up.

But they do happen to me.

It was a Thursday afternoon, perhaps yesterday, directly before naptime.

The timing is important, because all mothers know that “directly before naptime” means “I seriously cannot wait to have you in bed so that I can have a moment to reclaim my thoughts without anyone saying ‘heymommyheymommyheymommyheymommy’ while I’m simply trying to think one tiny sentence fragment of my own.”

(Cherish every moment, sweetheart. They go by so fast.)

But thanks to a frantic week, we were off schedule, and I was aware that my children stanketh more than usual.

(“Bath Nights” are Saturday nights and Tuesday nights. You do the math.)

So I had no choice. Pre-naptime baths absolutely had to happen.

I began running the bath and called the children from their blissful play.

“Everybody get naked and go tee-tee!”

Noah was first to whiningly reach me. As he was hopping off the toilet, he was still saying “I gotta go potty!”

“Do you need to poop?”

“No, silly! I just tee teed!”

“Then get in the tub.”

The washing began – along with the shock and awe over the fact that this bath, like all baths, requires me to spray your head, scrub your head, and rinse your head.

(WHY is that always such a surprise?? I will never understand.)

I finished Noah’s head and relegated him to the back of the tub. Then I began detangling Ali’s hair.

It’s unreal, her hair. At least ten feet long, thick, fine, and prone to extreme knots worthy of their own TLC freak show.

(I took her to a random salon at her birthday and requested that they put a deep conditioning detangling treatment on it. The salon manager didn’t believe me that she needed it, but agreed to it anyway. The treatment itself created a matted knot so big that it took her and another stylist over thirty minutes to get it out, all while the she shot me dirty, accusing looks while repeating that she’d never seen anything like it, clearly implicating me in a conspiracy to torture her.)

(Needless to say the treatment has not been any sort of long-term help.)

Back to the bath.

I was two and a half days into removing her tangles when Noah screamed, “I neeeeed to poooooop!”

Of course you do. Because you only poop once a week and of course it would be during this small window of rare bathing that your urges urgently interrupt.

But hey – it’s better than the alternative.

“Get out of the tub and poop, then.”

He tracked his giant pond-sized footprints across the bathroom floor.

He sat behind us, straining and turning purple, filling the room with the most unclean sound effects and aromas.

I considered the air particles for a second – should I just give up this bathing process all together?

“I’m doooone!!! I NEEEED YOU TO WIIIIIIPE MEEEE!”

I’m right here dude. No need to broadcast.

So I rinsed the masses of conditioner off my hands and headed over to wipe a butt.

He leaned over, holding my legs as I sent a piece of unlucky toilet paper journeying through his buttcheeks.

“My hands are all wet from my bath – not from the potty.”, he told me.

“I’m aware of that fact. But thanks for the reassurances.”

I wiped him extra thoroughly since he was headed back into a liquid germ-sharing situation with his sister, then flushed and returned to my detangling of the lion’s mane.

I didn’t notice the fact that his once-a-week poo was so massive that it had clogged the toilet. Or that the commode innards had also gotten stuck in the air and the water was continuing the run.

(One would assume such fortune could only happen once in a lifetime. But here it was, happening again, in the very same bathroom that was now brand new because of the last time it happened.)

I was unaware. Until I heard the sound of Victoria Falls rushing from the toilet.

I jumped up, splattering conditioner onto every surface, all while screaming “NONONONONO STOPSTOPSTOPSTOP!!!!”, sloshed through the quickly forming lake, and began frantically turning the knob on the back of the toilet.

The falls kept falling until the very last quarter turn. By then, the River of PooWater was nearing Ali’s bedroom.

I snatched up their towels and started mopping, while children, who are the ultimate Captain Obviouses, began saying things like,

“There’s water in the floor, Mommy!”

and,

“The toilet is overflowing!”

and,

“It’s comin’ over this way!”

I am not a yeller.

But in a moment of extreme PTSD – complete with flashbacks of living with the last toilet flood damage for 184 days – I yelled.

“Be quiet! Everyone – be quiet!”

Because apparently sopping up water demands silence. At least for Mommies who cannot tune out children.

It took both of their towels and a third fresh one from the linen closet to soak up all the PooWater, leaving me with extraordinarily unclean-feeling feet.

But it’s not like I could wash them off in the bathtub. Or track across my bedroom carpet to the other bathtub.

So I just went back, once more, to my job of detangling.

After everyone was [as clean as they could get in that room] and deposited in their respective bedrooms wearing fresh towels, I carried the sadly abused towels downstairs, using as few fingers as possible and praying that they weren’t wet enough to drip. I opened up the washing machine, ready to fling them in from afar…only to discover that I’d completely forgotten about the last load of laundry the day before.

And this,

All of This,

is why my children are, as of today, required to become hipsters.

I took a few pictures of the perpetrator so that I could remember what cleanliness looks like. To cherish the moment.

Because he will be allowed bathe again when he’s twenty-one.

The Unpaved Road to Kid’s Market.

February 18, 2015February 17, 2015 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, A Day in the Life, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Just My Luck

This has been my permanent position this week.

Because I’ve begun the process of consigning. For the first time in my life. With eight years of children’s clothes to wash, sort, match, pin, tag, and tape.

Take special notice of the container of apple juice on the coffee table, where children have begun to resort to helping themselves (and not returning things to the fridge) along the mixture of animal crackers and Play-Doh, a sure sign that I have given up all appearances of parenting.

In Birmingham, the mainstream way to get rid of kid’s clothes is through the giant semi-annual consignment sale, Kid’s Market.

But oh, the process. The pain. The detail.

As I’ve learned the many correct steps of proper consigning, I’ve come across some memories, and some difficult questions and realizations.

I began the journey by going through my returned girl’s clothes from my sister-in-law. I was amazed at the memories tied up in those garments, like the time I had to convince my former boss that Ali wasn’t a production killer, but a morale booster when we came into the office. And if you really want to be convincing, well, you need a t-shirt.

And the shocking resurgence of vivid images when, upon seeing this outfit for the first time in six years, I recalled the car-destroying blowout (and poo-clapping) that Ali had in it.

(Maybe I shouldn’t sell that…)

(At least the skirt was brown.)

A few hours after that memory crashed into my consciousness, I came back downstairs after putting the kids to bed only to ACTUALLY SMELL THE POO.

It was like the Ghost of Watery Craps Past had come to visit me.

I was shocked and horrified. Could the power of memory be that strong? Or did that outfit never quite lose its special scent?

Then I walked into the kitchen and, with relief, saw that the smell was actually caused by the fact that Chris had gotten halfway through cleaning out the fridge and had bailed to put the kids to bed.

Then the questions began.

Like, was this mysterious item my garter, my sister-in-law’s garter, or an especially disturbing newborn headpiece?

And whose glove was this? How long had it been exiled to the bags of children’s clothes, mourning the loss of its soulmate?

Then the real agony began: the tagging.

Items must be…

1. Safety-pinned onto wire hangers,
2. Masking-taped with my ID number, and
3. Labeled with a barcode price tag, also safety-pinned on.

I quickly learned that I am not safety-pin proficient – at least when stabbing large-yet-dull safety pins through mounds of clothing – and began wondering if my fingers would ever be water-tight again.

(WHY is it a rule that the bigger the safety pin, the duller its point? The bigger the safety pin, the more I need it to function properly, PIN COMPANIES.)

I also regretted the fact that I wasn’t diabetic, as I had plenty of finger pricks to go around. I could have known my glucose levels down to the millisecond.

And how do I keep from bleeding on everything? It seems like a blood-streak through the middle of a price tag might deter purchases, but my fingers looked and felt as if they’d gone through the meat-grinder.

Several garments in, my heart had a panic attack when I realized that I might be doing it ALL wrong. What if I were hanging all of these clothes, so painfully stretched to fit a newborn shirt onto a full-sized adult hanger and then double safety-pinned to boot, in the wrong direction??!

This thought was horrifying. My fingers were already tracked worse than Lindsay Lohan’s arms. I could not bear the thought of having to redo it all.

So I called My Friend The Expert – this was worthy of more than a text, even – and asked her to please explain to me which way the hangers should be facing.

“They should look like a question mark. And yes, you have to get that right or you’ll have to turn everything around.”

“Like a question mark. When they’re facing me?”

“Yes.”

“Wait a minute…”

(I had to draw a question mark. Then look at it twice to make sure I’d drawn it correctly. These are the pains of being left-handed.)

“Okay. It’s a miracle. I’m doing it right!!”

Halfway through the first day of pinning, hangering, stabbing, and barcoding, I decided that I should hire my babysitter to do this for me. But then realized that would defeat the point of my frugal endeavor, and I had no Workman’s Comp to offer her and she would quite likely contract tetanus which I was sure I already had in eight out of ten fingers.

After day two, I had 82 hangers full of clothes, most containing two or more items bundled together.

And yet my to-do piles were hardly diminishing.

Of course, because the only thing that makes life fun is turning it into a spreadsheet, I’d tracked the prices of my hangers and tallied the value of my work thus far. I tried to convince myself it was worth my future in Finger Rehab.

As I laid in bed, my fingers throbbing as they shriveled up and died like a Wicked Witch’s feet under a house, I had the thought that perhaps I should save these clothes instead – so that Ali could see all the precious outfits I dressed her in as a baby.

I slapped myself and pointed out the 100,000 photos I took of her before she turned one, and fell asleep to the comfort that I had snapped them while I could – because my fingers will never be able to push buttons again.