this is Sparta

Last week, Jon ran the Super Spartan race somewhere in the middle of Illinois. No training. Just sheer will. I was convinced he was going to break a bone, or worse, and spent the day worrying.

However, during the 8plus-mile course, he completed every endurance task--climbing walls, dragging cement blocks, crawling through mud, scaling a wall and ringing a bell--except the one where he had to pull a rope tied to a weight nearly as heavy as he is and lift it 30 feet. All while covered in a thick layer of mud. And he emerged with little more than a bruise and a couple scratches to show for it. Jon was disappointed; he'd been hoping to show off more legitimate battle wounds.

The next day he threw all the fancy wick-away-moisture clothes (including underwear and socks), his commemorative shirt and a towel he's had since college into the wash in our apartment building's community laundry room. It wasn't even half a load. He forgot about it.

Later that night, when we came back from our near-nightly walk, he remembered his gear and went to grab it, expecting it to be on the table or even the floor. It wasn't there at all.

He was so sad. I immediately got angry and started stomping around. We've lived here three years, and while some people around this complex look a bit shady, they're all probably decent people. I started imagining the pain in the butt it would be to do laundry at my parents' house and planned to amp up our house hunting so we didn't have to live in a place where someone would take your (albeit clean) underwear. Then I remembered there was a family doing tons of laundry when I came home from work that day, so I decided to believe Jon's stuff got collected with theirs and it was all just an oversight.

So I taped this sign to the laundry room door:

 I forgot to add the headband with his race number on it. 

We spent the day shaking our heads, sad that someone in our little community would take his clothes, and bummed that neither of us really got a look at the congratulatory Super Spartan Race tshirt he'd gotten at the finish line. At least he still had his medal.

But then!

He got back everything but the headband (not pictured, underoos and socks).

Madelyn found the stuff but the headband on the folding table two days later. All is right in Sparta.

Today Jon is running the Super Spartan race with the menfolk connected to some of my college buddies.

His facebook post about it has a link to the eight-plus-mile obstacle race, which may include mud pits, electrified wire and running up hills with buckets of rocks, with the sentence, "This promises to be the dumbest thing I do all year."

To which one of the other guys responded, "You underestimate yourself... You'll do plenty of other dumb stuff. I'm more likely to be hospital bound than you on this one."

It's so flipping hot I can't help but worry someone really might end up needing medical attention. Especially because in the last two months, Jon hasn't been to the gym, and only ran ONCE for three miles. 

But he looks really happy in the picture, so there's that. 

I am on call all weekend, so I figure I may as well go into work and try to catch up on all the crap I did that got erased this past week because of a system upgrade that wiped our test environments. And yet I am still sitting on the couch reading blogs.

***

Yesterday I met up with pp and had a lovely brunch/haircut date. This concept is genius because:

a) I get to hang with pp
b) I get a really sweet haircut
c) I get to try new places to eat in the city
d) The stylist starts the color on pp, does my trim while her hair is "processing," and the whole time we're all shooting the breeze like the do at the salons in movies.
e) My hair looks way more amazing when I leave than anytime I try to do it myself.

Of course, it's not ideal when I'm on call and my phone rings while the stylist is washing my hair. But it was fine.

pp seems to think that because she was a little hung over she wasn't a great date. She doesn't realize that just being in the company of someone who wanted to murder you for hitting snooze for almost five years and manages to loves you ANYWAY is a gift in and of itself. I was in a similar state, having been numbed up at the dentist and failing at chewing. Still a good time.

***

Last night we went to ri and c's house for pizza and booze. Jon was hydrating and carbo-loading--hell, it's the absolute least he could do to prepare for the race today. Highcon facetimed us. They ordered a pizza. C and I proceeded to split like three bottles of wine and we watched their little angel, Ari, toddle around like a champ. Then ri went up to put the baby to bed and accidentally fell asleep. And then I lay down on the couch and accidentally fell asleep. C and Jon talked about electronics and mortgage rates. We never got to the gelato that Jon and I brought. Nobody was mad about all the falling asleep because we've known each other for a quarter of a century and it's all good.

***

I started writing this post thinking everyone is annoyed with me being Debbie Downer the last several posts and trying to post something light and more "normal." But then I read this. If she hadn't turned off comments, I would have told her I feel the same way.

Yes, I think about my daughter minimum 20 times a day and will probably do so for a really really long time. I will probably mention it from time to time. But that doesn't mean I'm not happy for the girl in the office and want to go to her baby shower. Or have a really fun time chasing Ari around the dining room table. People don't have to feel weird. It's ok to talk about. Or not. The more important thing is to spend time together. Even if it entails chomping on the side of your cheek trying not to drool Hollandaise sauce or falling asleep in the middle of a conversation about speaker wire. 

I sincerely hope I will take the time to reach out when someone I care about is sad.

the genetics report came back

Our baby was a perfectly healthy, just had an acute infection. Whether the infection was there before the bag busted or was contracted during the three days in the hospital after it broke, we will never know. But as far as our doctors are concerned, there wasn't anything wrong with me or the baby. All signs point to the fact that we randomly got a bad bag.

The testing also confirmed my suspicion (and Madelyn's and my mother's): Baby was a girl.

I'm not going to lie. It's a little harder knowing what the sex was. I'm thankful to be able to use a nicer pronoun instead of talking in circles to avoid using the word "it." At least we know.