Family Friendly Runs

Trail runs offer a special kind of freedom to runners, and the kids who come out to cheer them on. My dance with dirt at the Afton 50K  Trail Run on Saturday was intense. With over 8,700 feet of ascending and descending, it wasn’t easy. But knowing my kids were out exploring and having fun meant I wasn’t worrying about them being bored or getting into trouble. And best of all, my kids didn’t just get to cross the finish line with me, they were dancing on it when I got there. My oldest even put the medal around my neck. After 6+ hours of running, it was the best finish line I could imagine!

What’s your favorite event for the family? What makes it so special for you or the other members of your clan?
-Laurie

The Sins of Our Fathers

Every parent has some seemingly brilliant, tragically misguided idea that haunts their children's memories into adulthood. One such memory for me involves a large bag of powdered milk stationed just inside our kitchen doorway. With four kids to feed, my dad thought it was pure genius--save money on milk, clear out more room in the refrigerator, and spare my mom more frequent trips to the grocery store.

And while my dad made every effort to convince us that powdered milk tasted just the same as or, get this, even better than regular milk, we knew better. His speeches were too rehearsed, too well thought out. He was obviously trying to convince himself too. It was understood that our mom found the stuff equally disgusting as us kids--I don't think I ever saw her take so much as a sip of milk when I was younger. But she made no efforts to stop the insanity. Yep, she stood by and watched the torment. We begged, we whined, we cried, we even tried to destroy the powder by dropping rubbish into the large garbage can in which it was stored. But still, we drank the froth at every meal.

In a perfect world, we would learn from our experiences. But this, unfortunately, is not a perfect world.

After successfully avoiding every one of my household duties for the past week, the milk supply ran dry this morning. And while looking in the cupboard for cereal, I noticed a box of powdered milk left over from my husband's week-long John Muir Trail trek last summer. "She'll never notice," I thought, feeling a little bit guilty. I was right. Worked great on cereal, slipped it right past her. Then, the real test. She wanted straight milk. I stood in the corner of the room trying not to laugh as she eyed up the froth. Knowing something was off, she took a cautious sip. Her eyebrows furrowed, the expression on her mouth changed. "This milk tastes funny," she said. My experiment was complete. Yes, I am now a hypocrite. But the kid in me is tremendously happy. And, now I know another "sports supplement" that works for kids in pinch. Just don't drink it straight.

Just Another Reason I Hate Treadmills...

I've never been a huge fan of treadmills. Even in the dark, cold months of winter... I'd much rather be running outside accumulating ice on my eyelashes and frost between my buns than running those endless miles to nowhere.

And yet we have a treadmill in our basement. We didn't buy it and we rarely use it--guess that was Grandpa's reason for giving it to us a couple of years ago. It has, however, come in handy on a few occasions so we keep it.

With two young girls in the house, we always keep the key to the treadmill on top of our refrigerator. Without the key, the treadmill will not work. Period. Unless... Unless you forget.

This post is about what happens when you do forget. It's my reminder to you to NEVER forget to put the treadmill key out of reach of your children. Last weekend, my oldest daughter decided it was a good idea to try running a 6-minute mile. What followed were burns on the tops of her feet that kept her up the entire night. (Imagine a superman pose, hands on the front rail and feet dragging behind on the belt.) Not pretty. Here's a shot of her feet close to one week later.


When I think of how painful a small "kitchen burn" is, I cringe to think of how bad these must have felt. At the very least, I thought, there would be a good lesson learned. But when I asked her, I got this: "Yes, I learned not to put the treadmill on 10 MPH." Huh? How about, "I learned not to mess with the treadmill." You can be sure we had a refresher course on why we don't play on the treadmill at all...

Anyway, the wounds on my girl's feet are just another reason for me to hate the treadmill. And to never, ever, forgot to keep the key in hiding.