I woke up, and dressed like this:

And, following AdreAnna’s inspiration, I participated in a Warrior Dash. (SIDENOTE: This is not the first time I’ve been inspired by a blogger to do something crazy. I wrote here about how Pamie inspired me to run a marathon.)

I ended the day looking like this:

In between those two photos I jumped over busted cars. As in, RAN ON TOP OF THEM. ON TOP OF CARS. And then through tires. And then I climbed over chest-high walls and under barbed wire.

Shit just got very real, y’all.

(Let me sidetrack and tell a story: A girl was screaming at me when I was going over the cars. Yelling, “Come on LADIES! FASTER!” to me and another woman. She was trying to be “encouraging” I guess, with her Personal Trainer Vibe/Voice but it irritated me to no end. She continued hollering through the tires. I don’t respond well to that type of “coaching” but I guess she thought she was being helpful. She had a CrossFit Trainer shirt on, so maybe that’s her job. I let her pass me but I caught back up to her at the barbed wire/wall obstacle where she was STRUGGLING because she didn’t want to crawl on her belly under the wires. And she was trying to do it on her butt/back and she was loudly bitching about how this was DANGEROUS. I passed her and never looked back. I saw her finish about 10 minutes after I did. I resisted yelling, “FASTER!!!!”)

There was a mountain of hay to climb, and a solid black tunnel to belly-crawl through. There were downed trees to jump over. There was a horizontal bed of cargo nets raised about 5 feet or so off the ground. I had to climb over that hand over feet.

And there were WALLS. Several walls that had you climb up in some way (Knotted ropes, cargo nets, ladder wrungs…) and then the toughest part for me: Going down on the other side. Every one of those walls had a top that allowed you to see what was on the other side, and what method was there to get you down. I’m scared of heights so every time I contemplated going BACK DOWN the way I came and just running around the wall. EVERY TIME I thought about doing that…basically chickening out. But Donnie was waiting for me and cheering me on, so every time…I just did it. I threw my legs over, fought back tears, and slid down the pole, or the wall, or the net. One time, on an oddly vertical wall I just screamed to Donnie, “WHAT DO I DO?” I was so scared. But I just did it. One foot after another. Down the wall. Every time.

That was the best part of the whole experience; that Donnie was there by my side every step of the way. We weren’t going to run together originally, but I’m so glad we did. He could have gone much faster without me, but he stayed with me so we’d have the shared experience. He waited after every obstacle and high-fived me, pushing me to the next TERRIFYING thing. And we did it all in 42 minutes which I felt like was DAMN FAST. We jumped the fire pits together and we crossed the finish line covered in mud, kissing at the end. As amazing as the whole thing was for me, personally? It was more amazing as a wife to my husband. I think Saturday was the most fun I’ve ever had with my husband. We cheered on our friends, we pushed ourselves beyond our limits, and we came home with viking hats. I think about the whole thing and am grateful for the physical challenge I faced and the fears I overcame, but I was pleasantly surprised by what else it gave me: A wonderful 42 minutes with the man I married, having fun and playing like kids again.

When MrZ and I met, we were both very much Type A Control Freaks. The main difference was that he’s also a perfectionist. I may have wanted it done my way, but my way seemed to always allow for me slacking than his way did. I like to say I was a Lazy Control Freak.

This made it so that over the next 10 years, his way won out more often than not. Because, let’s face it, if we’re both right, but he’s also perfect, then chance are his way is going to be the better option. This has lessened my need for control over the years which is better in many ways since MrZ – in general – has better taste than I do. And the things that he doesn’t care about? Don’t have to be perfect. This is good for me because the things he doesn’t care about? Are the things I do. So I can still do them lazily. Most of my domestic chores, cleaning especially, is done to my standards…NOT PERFECT. This suits both of us because he doesn’t really care about perfection in the Clean House area.

The time this balance does not work? Is when it’s a chore I have to do due to the SAHM convenience, but it’s something he cares about. In other words, he would like to be doing it but can’t because he works in an office. Like mowing the lawn. I do that since I’m at home and I know it kills him I don’t do it in the systematic even smooth way he likes. But you know? I’m doing it. It will need to be done again in a week so no one gets stressed out too much. But it does bother him.

Now we’re at a point where it causes us a big problem: MY PAINTING. MrZ does not have the time to paint the new house. The new house needs to be painted and we’d rather do it before we move in. We can’t afford to hire someone to paint the entire house. And it all has to be done in 11 days. This means I have to do it. And this is killing him. Every time I paint a room I leave behind drips and uneven lines and smudged trim. I try not to, but it’s hard not to when that natural propensity to perfection is not part of your psyche. This means MrZ spends the rest of his life seeing those errors and thinking about them. THEY EAT AT HIS SOUL. Trust me. I painted the bathroom in our old house a few weeks ago and he has reminded me no less than 75 million times that if I wouldn’t put so much paint on the roller it wouldn’t leave drips.

I didn’t care too bad, we’re leaving that house.

The new house, however, I’m trying so hard to be perfect. AND IT’S KILLING ME. First, there are drips already on the walls from the previous painters. Second, this is me and I just am not a perfect painter. I’m trying, I’m trying so hard, but I’m just not perfect. Luckily, we decided the compromise would be to hire someone for the common rooms MrZ would be in a lot and let me do the kids rooms. He can live with errors there since those rooms will get destroyed over the years anyway. But it’s making me crazy because everything he steps near the walls I’m painting I’m already screaming, “Don’t point out the mistakes or I’ll rip your eyeballs out!”

This is me cutting him off before he gets a chance to say: Looks good, Kim.

He’s trying to be nice, but we both know that he sees the errors and my point of all of this? I’ll be happy when we’re done. Then the mistakes are there and it’s his job to live with them. Right now I still have so much to do I’m still stressing about being perfect. In the end? I’m not the perfectionist so it’s impossible to be perfect. Somehow he can do it – I’ve seen his work. No drips. No smudges. Same tools as me. But, he knows he’s lucky I’m doing this so he tries not to say anything negative even though we both know he’s thinking it.

*sigh*

Please tell me someone out there is also married to a perfectionist that knows what I’m talking about? And then let me know if they’ll be will to come paint for me for a few days. Thanks.

That’s a picture of half of my walk-in closet collapsed to the ground. It was taken relatively soon after we bought our house and not much later…various other pieces started collapsing as well. Up until last month we had no more hanger space than the average NON-walk-in closet because so many of the other pieces had fallen off the wall or were simply too wobbly to use. This is why the closet renovation is a must before we sell the house. It’s currently useless.

One good thing it offered, however, was a room to get ready in when the other person was still sleeping. I don’t think I realized how much we used it for that until we no longer had it. We currently have everything from the closet spread across our bedroom and MrZ has the closet taped and covered in plastic for painting. Most mornings I get up first so I just try to grab what I need and get ready in the bathroom by the kitchen. MrZ tried a different technique this morning. He simply turned on the light in the bedroom at 4am while he gathered his things to go swimming. Since this is a very rude gesture when someone is still sleeping (4am!), he decided the best road to take to keep from waking me was to make me think he was trying to murder me in my sleep.

Well…I’m sure that’s not what he was thinking. But let me tell you: When I felt him place a pillow over my face? While I was in the unable-to-process-events-logically state of awareness? I totally had an adrenaline rush and the sudden horrific thought that, Oh no! He’s had enough me wearing my houseshoes all day! He’s trying to kill me! And that was officially the worst way I’ve every woken up from sleep in my entire life.

Also…this is how a very kind gesture can be interpreted as a homicidal one. In case you were ever wondering.

So, instead of doing the snarky My Family Sucks At Basic Household Chores type of entry, I’m going to do something a little less mean towards my husband. You know…just in case.

Blog Entry Option #2: Cute Video Of My Kids Getting Hopped Up On Cake Poppers

All About The Cake Poppers from zoot on Vimeo.

My kids were eating some cake poppers I made and I decided to interview them about it. I promise the smile my son gives you at the end of the video makes it all worth it.

The weather should be perfect which kinda pisses me off as it was perfect for him the last time he ran this race. The year I ran it? WORST RUNNING WEATHER EVER. It was raining and frigid for the entire race. I practically cried the last several miles I was so miserable. Yet, somehow, when he runs the race? Mother Nature hands him sunshine and cool (but not cold!) temperatures on a silver platter. More proof that I believe the universe is entertained by my misery.

I painted signs to hold to cheer him on today. I’ll try to make four different points of the course to wait for him. He doesn’t depend on spectator support but I totally loved it so I do what I can to provide it. I also have one point where I get to wait for him to turn back around so I get to cheer for the back part of that pack – which is where I always am when I race. Let me tell you as someone who is usually in the very back of the pack? Having random strangers cheer for you is the BEST THING EVER. So, I try to do what I can for my comrades with the slower pace.

Think about him and all of the runners today. And for all of you training to run the half-marathon with Linda in New Orleans? I’ll be thinking of all of you today too. Wishing I could be there in March to hold signs and scream like a maniac for all of you.

Is there anything cuter than kids in footed PJs?

Evidently the traditional 6th anniversary gifts are supposed to either revolve around sugar or iron. (Really? Who makes this shit up?) Since I don’t weld, I opted to stay up until 1am making him the perfect gift. They turned out damn good, if I do say so myself. There won’t be any fanfare around today, we rarely do anything for our anniversary…but I did want to take a moment to at least celebrate it on the blog. That’s how I roll…you know.

Happy Anniversary, hon. Love ya.

Many moons ago, when LilZ was playing soccer (and hating every minute of it) MrZ had to have a talk with me. He informed me that he didn’t think it was a good idea that I constantly joke about LilZ inheriting his clumsiness or lack of grace from me. “He may have gotten that from you, but you might remove any possibility that he overcome that if you keep joking about it.” Something to definitely think about. Yes, his soccer playing reminded me a lot of my own as a child. Struggling to run and kick simultaneously. Yes, he sometimes tripped over imaginary objects. Yes, he often ran into things that had not ever moved – like walls in our home. All of these things indicated a strong Zoot-ness in his grace, but why should I point that out? MrZ had a good point, if I gave him that excuse early on, he might not ever feel like he can move past it. Imprisoning him to a lifetime of bruised knees and scraped elbows.

SO – you will not hear me say those things ever often regarding any of my children. At least not if their in earshot. No matter how much it may be warranted.

However…

If I were going to? This would be one of those weekends I’d be joking about it. There were bonked heads on tables that had never moved. There were scraped knees tripping over flat concrete. There was a bloody lip and a bloody toe. One child went to bed last night with an icepack on their food while another went to bed looking like they had gone a few rounds in the ring with a heavyweight champ. Let’s just say this: There Was Not A Lot Of Graceful Performances This Weekend. Maybe the floors were all slippery. Inside and out. Maybe there were shifts in the gravitational pull that threw certain children off-balance. Maybe elves secretly moved walls in our home while we slept. Whatever the cause…this was a weekend of blood and bruises.

Or maybe, a certain parent passed on a few clumsy genes. Not that I would ever imply that while the kids were listening – of course. But if I did?

I’d totally blame the one with the goatee.

Unfortunately, classes like this are only offered during the day. So, I have to work a wacky schedule this week (or at least the days I take her) that will have me bringing her to work with me (in her dance clothes) and then taking an extended lunch break (at 9am) to get her too dance class and then to school afterwards. I’ll have to work until 5pm those nights (I usually work 7-4) to make up for the extended lunch. I’m essentially telling you all of this so you will understand if I don’t post as frequently. Or if all I post is adorable videos of my daughter tap dancing.

I also wanted a lead-in for a story from this weekend. This story is better told by my husband but since he doesn’t have a blog I’ll try to do it justice so that we have it documented when we need firepower for the teen years.

This weekend MrZ and NikkiZ were dancing. She starting some “freestylin’” as MrZ put it and ran across the room and punched him right where no guy wants to be punched. He let out a wail and through clenched teeth asked her to go to her room and said he’d be in there in a minute to talk with her. He wasn’t sure if she knew what was wrong about the punch she threw, but he couldn’t talk to her at that moment. He gave it a few minutes and went back to her room where he found her sobbing hysterically.

MrZ: Do you know what you did that was wrong?
NikkiZ: Yeeeeeeaaaaaahhhhh…(Said in her wailing sob)
MrZ: What?
NikkiZ: I punched you in the BAGINAAAAAA…
MrZ: Close enough.

I’m a single Mom for a few days this week as MrZ is in California on business. This rarely (if ever?) happens because he doesn’t do a lot of traveling with his job. I have several friends whose husbands do go out of town a lot and they are better women then I am because I would lose my mind if it happened all the time. I was a single Mom in college and working for several years, I have no desire to revisit any of that sort of stressful lifestyle. NO, THANK YOU.

That said…the first 24 hours? Haven’t been that bad. I realized very quickly that I stress out a lot more about dinner when MrZ is here. Not because he ever demands it, but because he’s an adult and has culinary needs that aren’t typically satisfied by a turkey sandwich. Whereas my kids? Thought turkey sandwich night was AWESOME. I put NikkiZ’s turkey and cheese on a biscuit from that morning and you would have thought I had then laced it with black tar heroin. She exclaimed several times through dramatic moans, “This is soooooo good, Momma!” I’m a genius in the kitchen. What can I say?

Of course, I was also hoping to enjoy some better sleep by having the bed and the TV remote all to myself. Last night my son even tried to help out the situation by only needing to be fed once through the night. My daughter on the other hand? The one who goes to bed and sleeps perfectly every night? Somehow ended up in bed with me. Actually, she woke up LilZ first because his room is closer. He then scared the shit out of me by walking in my room with her in his arms. Sleepy-time me envisioned some sort of Awful Thing happening to warrant such an occurrence. No Awful Thing. Just my daughter deciding to ruin any chance I had for peaceful sleep by invading my bed and kicking me in the face. Repeatedly.

Next time I’m lacing the turkey biscuit with Benedryl.

For example, we’re both punctual. Now, it is more difficult with two kids in tow and we’re re-establishing how long it takes to get ready. But – typically? We’re early. We aim for early. We aim for early because we fear those things that pop up unexpectedly and slow a person down. Like traffic. Or leaking diapers. Or a return trip home to get that one thing we forgot. We allow time for all of those instances and since they usually don’t happen? We’re usually early.

The other is that we both have a high tolerance for germs. This means we don’t think each other gross for not freaking out about possible contamination. This comes up a lot with the dogs, as they’re kinda gross too. But – the time this seems to be the most important is when sharing salsa. I have to tell you: We are a family of double dippers. Now, some of us are old enough to curb that when sharing salsa with others, but as a family? We don’t care. We just double-dip to our heart’s content. I’ve seen WARS breakout at tables over this issue…but at ours? Not so much. We don’t even think about it. (I do, however, prefer MrZ not just assume I want the been dip to mix with the salsa, I HATE THAT.)

The last one, and at times what I consider to be the most important of the three, is that we both are kinda disgusting. Or maybe I should phrase that differently? We both have a high tolerance for the Ick Factor. Case and Point: Last night AndyZ had a small bit of pee escape his diaper (Damn when I forget to point it DOWN and the pee comes out of the top of his diaper!) and get on our bed. It was bedtime and I was tired and MrZ said, “So, what are we going to do about this pee?” To which I replied, “Nothing. It’s on my side of the bed and considering most nights I end up covered in either spit-up or breast milk, I’m not going to worry about. This is the weekend I wash the sheets anyway.” Did he cringe at the idea of leaving it? No. Did he cringe at the idea of me sleeping in spit-up some nights? No. He just shrugged, “Okay,” and proceeded to go to sleep.

Then, a few minutes later? AndyZ spit-up all over MrZ and his side of the comforter. This time we blotted it up so it would at least be dry and proceeded to go to sleep. Neither one of us giving it another thought.

Maybe I’ve discovered the secret to our happy marriage. Be on time. And gross.

First, she said (to herself), “Hmm…let me find my pretend TV.” She dug out her Blues Clues computer and set it up on the hand-me-down washer/dryer combo next to her bed. She then said, “Okay. Now I need my remote.” I was getting curious and I was pretty sure what “remote” she was looking for (she has a few old remotes we’ve discarded that she pretends with) so I helped her find it. When I found it, I gave it to her. She stood in front of her “TV” and held the “remote” out and just started pushing buttons. Like her Daddy does when plays his games. Then, she handed the remote to me and said, “Your turn, Momma.”

I was pretty damn impressed with her “pretend” setup she had going. I called MrZ in to ask if he had taught her that and he said, “No.” She just came up with it on her own. So – she and I sat in there for awhile taking turns blasting the bad guys.

It just amazes me how these kids we’re raising? These kids we care for from infancy on – they have their own little minds. Eventually, they start coming up with their own games, their own songs, their own ideas and their own beliefs. It may start with a setup immitating Daddy playing video games, but it ends with little movie producers or playwrites. Their own little creative minds expand beyond their parents’ limits. AND IT FREAKS ME THE HELL OUT.

Blasting bad guys (for real) with Daddy last August.