The Life Above My Head

When someone lives in the apartment above you, you hear a lot of footsteps. The lighter footsteps of a woman. The heavier ones of a man. The tails of dogs hitting against the wall in happiness. These are the sounds I hear from above every day. I don't hear voices (unless they are raised in anger). I don't hear barking. I don't hear the TV. Just footsteps creaking. Oh, and the springs of the mattress just above my head at night when my neighbors go to sleep or when they wake early to walk the dogs. These sounds paint a picture in my mind of their life, even though I've never met them.

But this week I heard something different ... something horrible. Screams. Echoes of the word "no" 9 feet above my head. And footsteps running. And then I hear the sirens. See the paramedics. Hear more screams. Now there are strange footsteps running up and down the stairs. A man is taken out on a stretcher and placed in the ambulance. A woman follows behind. And then there is silence.

Only a layer of boards and paint separated my life from that of the couple living above me. One faced a regular Tuesday, the other faced tragedy. And as the week has gone by, this incident has changed me and I've grown quite sad thinking of them. In an odd way, I've been a witness to immense sorrow. I  hear the bed springs creaking late in the night and know there is no rest for the woman above me. I hear her sobs in the morning. I hear her footsteps walking back and forth. One set of light footsteps. And there is silence.

Party #3: Success!

Ava was invited to three birthday parties this month. The first two were busts. One involved her brother not coming home, causing us to miss the party. Bad deal. The other you will remember as the Chuck E. Cheese fiasco. Today, was the third. Given the past track record, I was just assuming it wouldn't happen. But we mapquested the location and took off with gifts decorated with glue and glitter to attend the mani/pedi salon birthday party.

I not only have trepidation about Ava going to parties because they seem to end badly, but I also can't help but worry about how she'll make out at these events. Not only does she have some mobility issues, but she has incontinence issues as well. And these are just not issues 7-year-olds (and some adults) can tend to comprehend. I wish I could protect her from the realities of life - activities she might struggle to do, places she might struggle to go, and people who don't understand. But I know I cannot shelter her; that's just not reality.

So, we walk up to the house and I feel anxious for her. Maybe she's just not ready for a another birthday party, I agonize. But the front door opens and she's wisked in by a giggling girl and handed a spa robe and slippers. I meet the birthday girl's mother and she assures me Ava will be fine. "She may need some help getting up and down stairs," I say. "Oh, we are having everything on this first floor so Ava doesn't have to handle the stairs. We want her to feel comfortable," the mom noted. Wow! This woman had taken the time to plan her party so that my daughter would have a good experience.

I get a double hug from Ava who hesitantly walks into the living room with the other girls. I thank the mother and say I'll be back in 2 hours. "You have my number?" "Yes, but she'll be fine."

As I walk back to my car I am filled with joy for Ava. Finally, a birthday party she will enjoy.

Chaos at Chuck E. Cheese

Last weekend, the little one was invited to a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese. Now, I don't really like this place. 1. It's filled to the roof (literally) with seemingly crazed kids. 2. The stupid tokens cost a lot of money and the return on investment often turns out to be a rubber ant or a sleeve of Smarties. 3. Kids have bullied tickets away from my kids. 4. Shoes need to be off to run rampant in the ceiling tubes. This equals foot funk throughout the place. 5. In the midst of all this, there is a salad bar. WTH? The one thing I like about Chuck E. Cheese: the pizza. But that's certainly not worth all the things that annoy me.

So, as we drove the 45 minutes to the party, I was in a bit of a funk myself. The 9-year-old was banned from getting tokens due to some punishment that will go nameless for his sake. (Think nerf guns, playing a neighborhood away, the sun is going down, and mom has no idea where he is...enough said.) So, upon arrival and getting our security stamp, we are informed the birthday boy has not arrived yet. So we wait and watch the circus around us. 

The little one needs to go to the bathroom, so I threaten the boy to stand immediately outside the bathroom. "Don't even look at those ceiling tubes." Inside the loo, the girl and I begin to "freshen up" when she looks at me with the most sad, horrified face, choking back tears. "Mama, I have a confession to make." A confession? What does a 7-year-old have to confess? "I hate people in costumes." At this point I'm dumbfounded. What the heck does that mean? But slowly the picture begins to materialize in my head. She's afraid of the big, fat Chuck E. Cheese mascot that comes out to scare ... I mean greet the birthday party kids.

"Oh, honey. It's just someone's Daddy in a costume, like Halloween." The tears flow down her cheeks and she stares at me. "I'll just stay with you and when he comes out, we'll walk to another party of the restaurant."

A tiny "ok" comes out. As we exit the bathroom, I'm not feeling really confident this birthday party is going to be happy for the girl. Luckily, the boy remained at his spot, salivating over the coins shining in everyone else's hands. We continue to wait for the party to begin, and that's when she spots the poster. Yes, you guessed it, the one where the "real" Chuck E. Cheese is hugging kids. That's it. Sobbing begins, and trying to convince her to stay flies out the window. "Can we just leave the present and go?" I knew I was not going to turn this situation around.

When the parents I arrive, I sheepishly walk up to them with a blathering child and explain the situation. They understand; they've had a child who spent an entire time under the table because of that Chuck E. Cheese character. We can't get out of that place fast enough; the boy admires the junk in the prize case as we pass it. I watch people filling up their salad plates and shudder. I feel like giving them a brochure on food poisoning.

Perhaps the little one was right after all; I never did like Chuck E. Cheese either.

Runner's World

My mp3 player starts to play Train's Brand New Book. One gray/pink New Balance sneaker hits the sidewalk, then the other, and they take turns moving me down the street. "Today I'm going to have a good run. Feelin' good, jammin' out". Rolling along, I see a walker coming toward me and I tense up. Oh no, I have to keep going so she doesn't think I'm an amateur. That's when I suddenly get shin splints. "It's all in your head." I sprint by her and stick my chest out. Braggart. 


I must pass the point where I pooped out running the other day. I can see it up ahead and it appears about 10 miles away. I finally reach it and then make myself focus on the next mailbox. Go, go, go. One mailbox, two mailbox. I stop at the one with the golf bag flag.


Time to walk. I run into the walking lady again who is now in front of me. I pump my arms and cross the street so I can pass her without seeming rude. The minute I pass her I begin running again. She can't think I'm an amateur. Eddie Rabbit's I Love a Rainy Night (stop laughing) gets me past the elementary and around the turn to the big hill. "Run to log on the left-hand side of the road and you can stop." 


I huff and puff to the top with school buses nudging me into the grass and stones. I see the same large bolt I saw on my last run. Then I come to the big, busy road. Have to show I'm a runner, so I start sprinting as cars whiz by me. "I wonder what it would feel like if I got hit. How far would I fly?" 


All the time I've been running/walking, my shins have been on fire. I'm bummed because I could completely run this route in good time last fall. Stupid belly fat. Run five steps. Hike down shirt. Run three steps. Hike down shirt.


I run past several holes of a golf course and think that looks like more fun than running. I see an older lady using a walking, gingerly moving along the sidewalk as if she's walking for the first time. I feel guilty for even walking past her. As I end my run, one of my favorite running songs comes on: Stand by Rascall Flatts. 


You feel like a candle in a hurricane
Just like a picture with a broken frame
Alone and helpless, like you've lost your fight
But you'll be alright, you'll be alright

Cause when push comes to shove
You taste what you're made of
You might bend ?til you break
Cause it's all you can take

On your knees you look up
Decide you've had enough
You get mad, you get strong
Wipe your hands, shake it off
Then you stand, then you stand


The next time I lace up my sneaks and pop in my earbuds, I'm going to blow past that mailbox with the golf bag flag ... and just run.

Ezekiel 4:9

The Bible scripture in the headline is the brand name of organic bread. I kid you not. You wander into the organic section of your local Giant and there you'll find it in the frozen cases next to the Amy's organic enchiladas. Buying this bread was my homework from my workout session last night.

To be honest, the bread seems a little scary. It's dubbed as live sprouted grain bread. My first thoughts jump to mold. The packaging has chapters devoted to "the miracle of sprouts" and the actual scripture text, along with a dove flying over the loaf. I'm hoping it's miracle bread. I'm keeping an open mind. I'll see how forward-minded I am tomorrow morning when I make toast and spread it with natural peanut butter, which has one ingredient. Peanuts. Damn you tasty Jif for having sugar.

In the first 4 days of my makeover for mom, I've done fairly well with my diet and exercise. I ran twice and worked out with my trainer twice. I'm not a complete stranger to the gym or strength training. I ran a 12K last fall and walked the Philly half marathon a week later. But I've had commitment issues to any long-term relationship with exercise. But, I'm proud of what I've done since last Wednesday. And I'm thinking the Ezekiel 4:9 bread is going to be the answer to my prayers.

That's such a bad joke.

One Year Under the Belt

I am a mom. I am single. I am divorced. I am...well...not thin. I know...can't you just feel the self love? Recently, I passed the one year mark of what had to have been my lowest of low points in life. My separation, divorce, the fall of my family, and the plumping of my butt. But over this past year, I've started to dig myself out of the worst funk you could ever imagine. And, as a writer, I somehow thought others would want to come along for the journey. Don't worry, my posts won't be all downers. But they will be real.

Last Monday, I emailed some random personal trainer online and said I wanted to get some one-on-one training. I had no idea if this guy was a serial killer or even a trainer for that matter. I go to his house (in hindsight this seems incredibly stupid) for a consult and I have my first session Wednesday. I'm pretty sure he's the real deal because my body was on fire after I left the session. Sunday is my next session; still hoping he's not psycho. Along with strength training, I'm tracking my calorie count on this lovely little app call MyFitnessPal. Umm...I don't think I'm going to be close friends with this app. It makes you be a-c-c-o-u-n-t-a-b-l-e. PLUS, my trainer can look at my log...anytime. I guess I could lie and just say I eat lettuce all the time. But, I'm paying money (I don't have) for his advice, so I'm thinking honesty is better for the bottom line (budget and butt).

It's Friday night and I could go for peanut buster parfait. I'm thinking they're not 172 calories (which my app says I have left). Lovely.