Dear Kid,

Your sister has decided to kill me.

I know this because she has been doing the insanity workouts this summer and has decided I need to join her in these workouts.

Anything that includes the word “insanity” and is not immediately followed either by the word “chocolate” or “coffee” cannot possibly be good for me.

In order to preserve my sanity, my capacity to breathe, and my ability walk upright, I’ve decided to begin compiling a list of reasons NOT to do the insanity workout.

1. I have a hangnail.
2. I don’t have an Insanity Workout outfit.
3. My eyelashes hurt.
4. I sprained my eardrum.
5. I want to be able to work out tomorrow.
6. “Work. Out.” ‘Nuff said.
7. I have to cook dinner.
8. I have to write a blog.
9. I have to paint the garage.
10. I have to finish knitting a sweater.
11. I have to learn how to knit.
12. I have a date with a pillow.
13. I need to text someone.
14. I have to be home in case the political pollsters call.
15. I’d rather binge out on Oreos.

I don’t think she’ll accept any of those, but a girl’s gotta try.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

Is Rio ready?

In a word, um, no. Unless by “ready” you mean more of a hot mess than prior not-ready Olympic cities.

Claressa Shields, on the other hand, is ready.

Claressa is the first American woman to win Olympic Gold in boxing. Which means she can hit a lot harder than you can.

Let’s be clear. I’m not a fan of women boxing. Before you start yapping about sexism, let me say that I’m not a fan of men boxing. I get that it’s a sport. It’s just not a sport I like.

I am, however, a fan of Claressa.

As of this exact moment, Claressa is 21 years old. Did I mention she’s already won a gold medal? Are you feeling like a bit of an underachiever?

She grew up (can a 21 year old be all grown up? Don’t answer that) in Flint (home people who can’t drink water). Her father was a boxer in underground leagues (meaning he fought moles). He was released from jail when she was 9, and while he taught her about boxing, he wouldn’t let her participate in the sport (what with her being a girl).

Claressa’s grandmother encouraged her to do whatever she wanted regardless of gender and Fate joined in to hand Claressa an A #1 boxing coach.

And Claressa went on to become a crazy good boxer.

The world didn’t pay much attention.

Claressa won the World Championships in her weight class in 2014. The world continued to not pay much attention.

She has a record of 68-1. The world yawned.

She qualified for Rio. The world blinked and did a couple of interviews.

I plan to not watch boxing this year. But I will absolutely check to see how Claressa does. Both in the Olympics and in the City of Zika.

Things are gonna get interesting….

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

The Puppy has created a new game called Get Mom to Get Up and Move.

That’s not what it’s called.

We were outside weeding. Well, I was weeding and he was sniffing weeds. Let’s call the spot where I was sitting Point A.

That’s a dumb name for a pile of mulch.

The Puppy started wandering East of Point A.

I was following my nose!

When he got to the edge of our property, I called for him to come back. He ignored me and kept slowly wandering toward the east.

I was following my nose, not my ears.

I got up, pushed my way through the bushes that he’s small enough to walk under, grabbed his leash, and led him back to Point A.

After a moment or two, he began to wander in southerly direction.

Important sniffing had to be done.

I kept an eye on him, but when he reached our property line, I told him to wait for me.

My tail tried to wait for you.

His tail may have wanted to wait, but clearly his nose was in control and he continued to meander while I got up and fetched him back.

We had an important talk about staying on our side of the invisible lines.

The squirrels don’t have to!

No sooner had we finished our talk than he began to wander West.

I wanted to see what was over there today.

Rinse and repeat. If he could have figured out how to wander up, I’m sure he’d have done that too.

All in all, it was hard to get much weeding done….

Eventually, the Puppy gave up, flopped in the sun, and contented himself with letting his thoughts wander.

Love, Mom

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Dear Kid,

Speaking of Olympic sports (I’m sure I was at some point), I’ve been watching some of the swimming trials.

And it occurs to me that there is an event missing.

Not the women’s 1500, although that’s clearly missing and anyone who thinks women can’t handle endurance events is clearly off his rocker. (Not saying I could do it, but there are women who can. And they should be allowed to do it in the Olympics.)

Nor am I talking about the obvious misses like the 100 meter doggy paddle (with real dogs) or jellyfish relay (in which swimmers must dodge Portuguese Man O War jellyfish during their event).

No. I am (of course) referring to synchronized swimming.

Now before you get all futzed at me, I know there is an event called “synchronized swimming.” And I know it is crazy difficult and highly competitive and it’s beautiful to watch even if Esther Williams isn’t participating. But – let’s be honest here – it’s water ballet, not swimming.

I’m not downgrading the sport we currently call synchronized swimming. I just think we should rename it and add an event called sychro-swim.

Each delegation will enter two swimmers who must—simultaneously and in unison—complete two laps of the pool. Entering and existing the water will be included in the judging.

Synchro-swim will be scored using a very technical and difficult algorithm (the better to give commentators something to comment on and delegations something to protest, thereby ensuring that we capture the true Olympic spirit). The event will be scored 50% on speed and 50% on synchronicity and 10% on how good breakfast was. Subjective scoring will be done using a binomial theorem and a base 9 metric incorporating the median variation and hippopotamus.

No idea what that means either, but the commentators will have a field day.

I can’t believe the Olympic committee hasn’t yet called me to consult on this.

Crazy how people can miss the obvious.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

Have you noticed that the summer Olympics are coming up? And that they’re going to be in Rio?

Yeah, you probably knew that. Which means that it is time to learn a little bit about Rio de Janeiro. Specifically, the big statue that photo-bombs every picture of the city.

The statue in question is called Christ the Redeemer. At least in English. It’s called Cristo Redentor in Portuguese which you don’t speak.

The statue is 98 feet tall, has a wingspan of 92 feet, and stands (literally) at the top of Corcovado Mountain (which is 2,300 feet high). This is why you look up to see it.

That people can look up to see it without throwing their entire spinal cord out of alignment is one of the reasons it’s considered one of the New Seven Wonders of the World.

Stick with me here for a minute. The statue is in Brazil, was create by a Polish-French sculptor, the face was made by a Romanian artist, and it’s named in Portuguese (because that’s what they speak in Brazil). His outstretched arms are a symbol of peace.

Maybe it is the perfect piece of art for the Olympics.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

About a zillion years ago, I found a big piece of fabric with a blue background and a football team logo all over it. I sewed up the sides, stuffed it, and turned it into an enormous pillow for your room.

Since it was not the logo of a team that offended your sensibilities, and since it was big, and most importantly it was football (although hockey would have been better, Mom), you were quite happy to have it.

It lived as part of the background of your room for a long time.

But while the logo didn’t offend your sensibilities (hockey really would have been better, Mom) neither were you at all interested in that particular football organization, and the pillow drifted. It drifted so far that eventually it fell off your bed and took up permanent residence on the floor.

There it lay for several years, until I finally decided that someone with four legs would probably enjoy it more than the floor.

So I brought it downstairs, covered it with towels (just in case the team offended the Puppy’s sensibilities), and presented his Furriness with an alternative napping spot.

The Puppy LOVES his big pillow. It may be his favorite place to nap. If not his fave, then certainly in the top three. Apparently, he just doesn’t care all that much about football logos (I’m sure he agrees that hockey really, really would have been better).

Somewhere along the way, one of the seams gave out. The Puppy (of course) saw this as an excellent opportunity to liberate some of the stuffing. I shoved the stuffing back in the pillow, turned the pillow so that the hole was against the wall (harder to remember to pull the stuffing out when you can’t see it), and promised myself that – at my earliest opportunity – I would repair the rip.

Fast forward approximately 17 months. Yesterday was “my earliest opportunity.” I know, because I actually fixed the pillow yesterday.

Not only was the seam ripped, but part of the fabric was ripped too. There was no way to perform elegant plastic surgery. This was meatball surgery (extra points if you get the reference) at best.

So I sat on the floor with the big blue pillow and began to pin and stitch. The Puppy was not amused at having his Favorite Place taken away and stalked off, making it a point to ignore me. I made it a point not to notice him ignoring me.

About halfway through the repair job, I went to the kitchen to refill my BOC (beverage of choice—Diet Coke). When I came back, who do you think had figured out how to climb onto the pillow, curl up, and pretend to be asleep?

Dad wanted to “cause an earthquake” and dislodge the baby from the pillow. I vetoed the idea.

Instead, I lovingly scooped him off the pillow and into my lap, thoroughly expecting to be given the evil eye and abandoned.

Just when you think you know how they’re going to behave…

The baby blinked up at me sleepily, snuggled down, and remained on my lap. I thought maybe he wanted to be near his pillow while it was in “the hospital.”

Have you ever tried to thread a needle when a 20 pound dog is sleeping with his oversized head in the crook of your arm? Not easy, my friend, not easy.

I pulled the pillow over, somehow threaded the needle, and resumed working. Get the visual: Puppy in my lap, mostly curled up with his head in the crook of my left arm; pillow that is 5 times bigger than he is pulled up so that it is almost covering him like a blanket; me trying to sew.

And then – just as I was considering asking him to nap elsewhere – he began to snore. Tiny, baby, I’m-so-happy-with-the-world snores.

By the time I finished the pillow, my arm was beginning to cramp from holding his head and my right leg had fallen asleep.

It’s been a long time since I was that happy to be that uncomfortable.

Love, Mom