Mon 5 Nov 2007
That Kind of Weekend
Posted by Liza under Personal
I had half a cute post written about Saturday, but half of that disappeared.
Which is, actually, perfectly reflective of my Saturday. Noah was about 30% incredibly wonderfully adorable and 70% screaming demonchild. Guess who still has a cough and is also getting molars?
I posted some pictures of our very wet adventure at the Children’s Museum on Flickr, and had them integrated into the part of the post that disappeared. I can’t recreate it.
When Jill got back from her all-day car show (she won a trophy!), I went out for a little respite. Or tried to anyway.
First, Jill and Noah decided they wanted cake. So I tried to go to the awesome cake place near our house. Closed. Then I tried to go join the gym. Also closed. Then I tried to go to my favorite bookstore to get some escapist reading. No parking. Then I freaked out on Jill on the phone, and she kept trying to fix it, which was not what I was looking for. Ultimately, I did go to another (teeny weeny, not carrying the kinds of books I like) bookstore, where I tried to convince myself that there was something there I would read. You: On a Diet was the closest. Then I went to the grocery store and bought mini-cupcakes and went home.
Sunday was better.
I successfully joined the gym associated with the hospital near our house, and this morning, between 5:36 - 5:56 am, I swam 14 laps! (It’s a small pool.)
If I go 3x/week for the next six months, each visit will cost $3.





November 5th, 2007 at 10:16 pm
Atta girl!!!
I’m on a yoga trip not designed for seniors–which (seniors plans) are at incredibly impossible times, assuming that none of us have real jobs. So I go on Saturday morning, the others that are not for beginners leave me panting and near death. If I do not collapse from the attempt, I’ll be strong and flexible enough to play with Noah and not collapse gasping in the attempt. As his Mom, I’m sure you can do even better. See you soon. I will NOT join you in the pool. I drown too easily.
Love,
Mom