So, you know how your husband’s transmission needs to be repaired and the bill is over $2000, and that same night you realize that your refrigerator stopped working, and then then next day your car won’t start and you can’t even get your hood open, so you have to wait for AAA to come rescue you, and then your dog jumps up to get a ball off of the mantle, because that’s where balls belong, and she knocks down your big picture and a crystal candle holder, you know…the one that’s part of a pair…and there are glass shards everywhere, but that’s okay because you have plenty of time to pick them up since the refrigerator repairman said he’d be there sometime between 8:00 and 5:00?

Yeah. Me too.

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My eight year old son has, undeniably, struggled with everything he has ever tackled. Nowhere has this been more evident than in the sports arena.

We tried soccer, but he was only about the size of a three year old at the time. A 35 pound kid with a heart defect and reflux does not a soccer star make. When the coach would put him in, he would simply run across the field to where we were sitting and ask, “Can we leave now?”

Last year we tried t-ball. He liked it. Mostly, he enjoyed the free snow cone at the concession stand after the games and watching the trains that run on the tracks behind the field, but whatever. Progress is progress, people.

Now that he has reached the soaring height of a four year old he has moved on to coach-pitch baseball. This seems to be an ideal sport for him. There isn’t too much running and sometimes there is bubble-gum in the dugout.

However, that doesn’t mean it has been easy. Although he has a great swing he only had two hits in the first two games.

But last night he hit the ball every time he was at bat. He even had a double. Okay, it was a single with an overthrown ball so he was allowed to advance to second, but again…whatever.

During that inning, he scored his first run. The parents from our team were cheering so much when he reached home plate that he was positively beaming with pride. He waved at everyone as if we were his adoring fans and, at one point, I thought he was actually going to bow.

After the game, one of those parents congratulated him by saying, “Hey, buddy! You played great tonight!”

Then we realized that even modesty comes hard for him when he replied, “I know.”

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Two years ago a friend of ours with a self-employed husband, two kids and an ailing father who had recently moved into her home, made me feel like lazy-schmuck-mom when she decided to go back to nursing school.

About a month ago she graduated…with honors…and yesterday she found out she passed her boards. After two years of hearing, “I can’t. I have to study” it was time to celebrate.

At the last minute I decided to throw together some dinner. A Mexican fiesta, if you will. Mostly because no Mexican fiesta is complete without margaritas.

The kids and I headed to the grocery store and my son got the coveted job of being the “list checker-offer”. His tiny, eight-year-old self, which still fits easily into the seat of a shopping cart, called off the items. As I added them to the cart, he would mark them off the list.

Now, you can not deny that you look in other carts to see what people are buying. I do it. I know you do it too. Standing amid the produce section with a cart full of colorful peppers, lettuce, onions and tomatoes, I knew I was disliked by more than one parent with a non-veggie eater. I could hear them thinking, “How does she do it?” I may have puffed up my chest. Just sayin’.

But, as he usually does, my son brought my delusions of parenting grandeur to a crashing halt when he loudly stated, “Okay, the next thing we need is Triple Sec.”

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I like to run.

Don’t get the wrong idea, I am not an athlete. I don’t run long distance races or have anything that remotely resembles a runner’s body. I have been away from running for many months and I look more like a blob than something long and lean. I want to get back to it.

But, in recent years I have dealt with a lot of pain in my feet when I take to the streets (or the treadmill, for that matter). I have spent many mornings hobbling out of bed, reaching for my dresser to lean on so I can stretch my calf to alleviate some of the tightness.

The best solution was to ice it, but if you have never rolled a frozen water bottle around under the arch of your foot, you don’t know what uncomfortable really is.

A couple of months ago I read an article in the newspaper about running barefoot. It intrigued me. The proponents of barefoot running say that it’s how humans were meant to run, which makes perfect sense to me.

When you run barefoot, you are forced to stop slamming your heel into the pavement because it hurts too much. You compensate for the pain and shift your landing to the forefoot. While researching it further, I read that the technology in today’s running shoes simply hides the pain of a shoe-wearer’s heel-strike.

I thought about it more. All of my friends who are distance runners have had injuries. Plantar Fasciitis, Achilles pain and aching knees are the norm. I even know someone who lost all of his toenails. Back in the 70’s, when shoes were minimal, I never heard of those things happening.

So, I tried it. Not on the open road, but on my treadmill. My foot fell at a completely different spot, my stride was altered and I had a lot more endurance. After a while I began to feel blisters forming on the balls of my feet, so I stopped and put shoes on. And with shoes on feet, just like that, I went back to firmly landing on my heel.

After my barefoot run I was sore…in a totally good way. My calves hurt because I actually used them, but other than the blisters, my feet were in pretty good shape.

Now my husband would probably rather die than look like a barefoot hippie running down the road, but I don’t care about what people think if it means I won’t be in pain anymore. Unfortunately, I can’t imagine running without shoes on outside. It’s not the rocks that scare me, it’s the roadkill. For real.

So I started looking into barefoot, or minimalist, running shoes. Something without the shock absorbing heel so I will be forced to land the way a human should. From what I read, the best shoe for this is called the Vibram Five Finger.

Only, it’s not five fingers, it’s five toes. Remember how I said that I don’t care what I look like? Yeah. Scratch that. I just don’t know if I have enough self-confidence for these.

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