I Was Running: A Birth Story

Ha.  This is not really a birth story.  I just said that because there are about a million birth stories on all the blogs out there.  This is probably because most of the women who blog are Mormon, stay at home mommies.  I shamelessly follow (stalk?) a lot of Mormon bloggesses because I find their DIY crafts ingenious and their economic recipes amazing.  Also, my friend from high school is Mormon and I really like her so I follow her too.  Wait, way of track.  OK, let me try again.

I said birth story because they tend to attract a lot of attention, and while I didn't give birth on Sunday, I did complete the biggest physical accomplishment of my entire life, so it's as close to a birth story as I've got.

I ran a half-marathon.  

Seriously, ran.  

Didn't walk one time.  

For 13.1 miles I didn't walk.

I've never been a big "runner."  Before I started training for the Shamrockn' Half-Marathon I only ever ran if a coach was making me or if I let enough guilt build up, and I usually hated every step.  I did the half-marathon training program with Fleet Feet Sacramento and it completely changed my feelings about running.  I learned how to do it and actually like it.  (The secret, for anyone who is curious, is to go as slowly as possible.  I'm really good at that).

And now, for the photo recap:

 This is my friend and coworker Lindsey.

She is the one who convinced me to do this.

This was, like, her millionth half-marathon.

Or, something like that.

 

And...We're off.

Lee went to meet the rest of my family in Old Town Sacramento where they were waiting for me to run by at mile marker 9. When Lee asked my brother how long they had been waiting he responded, "We watched them put the cones up." 

Ha ha ha! Louise McFadden strikes again.

Here I come!

 

See, how fast I am going?  An actual blur!

One of the happiest/in pain moments ever.

(See, like birth!)

(Ok, so not exactly like birth)

 My family = The best family

And my boyfriend = The best boyfriend.

Never in his life has he taken a serious picture.

 The thing about races is this:

You get so much free stuff!

My parents were so cute!  

They brought champagne and a cake!

Christi Black staged this photo.

Christi, do you work in PR?

Highlights of the day included:

• Being allowed to use the VIP porta-potty.
• Watching Lee have to get out of bed at 6:00am.
• Realizing fifteen minutes into the race that I hadn't rinsed out my water bottles well enough and they all tasted like soap.
• My father running after me after I passed him yelling, "Wait!  I didn't get the picture!"
• My brother finding me in a sea of people at the finish and giving me the biggest hug ever.
• Having my parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and Lee's family packed into my tiny house drinking champagne and listening to my Aunt Joan talk about her concern over the amount of pedophiles that come from Ireland. ("Because WE'RE Irish and I just never knew it was this bad back then!")
• Discovering that the people at Raley Field think it's a good plan to store the coffee creamer next to the onions and the mayonnaise.  Barf.

 

The Egg Business Circa 1992

My brother and I had various money making schemes growing up. They originated with us trying to sell our toys to each other, or food out of the refrigerator to my parents claiming we were a "toy store," or "restaurant" respectively.  We quickly learned that trying to sell people their own property was not only questionably unethical, but not all that lucrative.  We were looking for the big score, and we knew we had to expand our horizons in order to make any real cash.

Enter the chickens.  My parents were kind enough to give us a 4H-ish experience growing up that included chickens, ducks, rabbits, dogs, and cats.  We had a chicken coop at the end of our property that my father spent HOURS trying to wild-animal proof (It took a couple of tries and we lost a few fowl in the process).  Once the Taj Mahal/ Fort Knox of chicken coops was completed those chickens must have felt a knew-found sense of security because the eggs started flowing.  I mean, A LOT of eggs.  Sometimes several dozen every week depending on the rotation of live chickens at any given time.

After hearing my parents complain about us having too many eggs my seven year old business savvy was alerted, and I realized we (the chickens?) were sitting on brown and white gold mine.  (Not all eggs are white, for those of you who didn't grow up in the sticks).

My business plan was as follows: My brother and I would take our red wagon, fill it full of eggs, pull it up and down our street where we would go door to door selling the eggs for 50 cents a piece.

Well, the plan was doomed from the beginning.  Observe:

We didn't live on a street.  
We lived on a dirt road.  We didn't take into account the forces of physics involved in dragging the rickety wheels of a little red wagon over the rocks and pot holes of a back-country road, coupled with the fragility of an eggs shell and the cold, hard metal of the inside of the wagon.  Not to mention, our "neighbors" were neighbors in that their homes were also on the dirt road, but they weren't RIGHT next door.  There was a lot of ground to cover between the houses.  Predictably, the first day of the egg business resulted in our product lying in a scrambled mess at the bottom of the red wagon.


My Brother
Brennan's involvement in the business was more of a PR stunt than anything else.   He was SUPER cute, and he had several speech impediments, which I knew would endear any would-be egg buyers.  However, at only four, there was no way he could deal with the difficult addition that was necessary for the egg business, plus he didn't have any knowledge concerning the value of US coins.  He just knew that they were "money" but that was about as far as it went.   Several times I caught him putting the "money" in his pocket, and not in the predesignated corner of the wagon that would serve as our "bank" because he liked money, and he knew that having it in your pocket was a good idea.  This enraged me, and caused me to accuse him of being a thief.

The Price of the Eggs
As someone who, almost twenty years later, buys eggs on a semi-regular basis it's now obvious to me that my price of 50 cents an egg was ludicrous.  Especially because they had zero quality control, and, especially during the summer months, there really was no telling weather or not those eggs were edible.  I was essentially taking advantage of the egg monopoly I had created, and I got too greedy.

Eventually we scrapped the egg business.  We were overcharging, and let's face it: It was a pain to haul those eggs up and down that dirt road.