This one’s a Doozy

 Tomorrow’s the day, Wyatt.

Tomorrow you move into your dorm and start the next chapter ~ COLLEGE.

I knew it was coming. It’s not like this day snuck up on me unexpected, like when Trump was elected. I’ve been doing the mental countdown all summer.

Some days the speed it was approaching made me sad.

Some days it made me giddy.

Some days I flipped you off as soon as you left the room.

Some days I watched you play endlessly with your cousins and my heart was so full.

Some days you did typical teenage boy stuff and all I could do was bow my head and pray “Dear Lord, I pray you silence his attitude before I smother my only son with an Aldi bag.”

Because the truth? The truth, my sweet boy, is simple. From the moment you were born, you have always owned my heart.

You were born on your due date (thank you for that) and at 10 pounds (total dick move by the way). Everyone loved you. 

And you loved everyone. Especially blondes. On your first day of preschool your dad walked you into the classroom and you tugged on his hand. He leaned down and you motioned toward one of the teachers and said, “I call the blonde.” You were 4.

Growing up in a family with 3 older sisters, you probably felt like you were never heard. But you didn’t let that stop you from delivering some funny and head scratching lines over the years. I remember talking to you alone after your dad and I told you kids we were getting a divorce. I wanted to make sure you were doing okay. 

“Do you have any questions for me?” I asked you.

You were 6, and eating a bowl of Cheezits. You studied my face, thought for a moment and then asked “So are you gonna like marry George Lopez now or what?”

Um excuse me? No I will not.

You have always been such a great human. I know I’m your mama and inherently biased but thank you for making the motherhood journey easier for me than your sisters did. Amirite?? 

Thank you for your sweetness to everyone. It shows your good heart.

Thank you for your kindness to strangers. It shows your character.

Thank you for everything good you’ve brought into my life. 

I have absolutely loved being your mom and seeing you grow into a wonderful young man. 

Tomorrow you start the next chapter and I am so excited for you. I mean, FOR SURE I’ll be doing the ugly cry in your dorm hallway but that’s a given. I sobbed on your first day of kindergarten so we already know I have issues with self control.

Because this next step? Ushering my last child into college? This is supposed to be my swan song. So why is my throat so tight?

Because you’ve always been loved so very, very much. And it’s going to be hard not to be around you and the good vibes you give.

But hey, since you won’t be needing your closet…

And off she goes

 How's the saying go?

"The days are long but the years are short"...

Oh Chloe Louise, out of all my children, you made my days the longest.

I'm not sure what I expected when you were born. I think I expected you to be like your sisters. I think I expected you to be easy.

All I know for sure is I was incredibly unprepared.

I was pregnant during 9/11, and so when you were born the following spring it felt so good to feel happy again. I had a water delivery with you, and when you were born I pulled you out of the water and looked right into your deep, steady brown eyes. I was so excited, I finally had a baby that had brown eyes like me. You didn't even really cry much at first. Just kind of looked around, maybe a little annoyed you weren't as warm as you were just a few minutes prior.

You could tell you were born in water because you loved any chance to swim. By the time you were 15 months old, I could put you in a bathing suit with the life jacket floaties built in, and you could swim complete laps in our in-ground pool. Nothing scared you. Not your sisters, not your parents. Nothing.

It was like you were born with this baby fierceness. We laughed about it at first. Like when you were about 2 and you started, for no reason at all, kicking your great uncle Bud in the shins every time you saw him. Why? We have no idea. We figured you'd forget about him by the next year. Nope. You'd see him across the room, talking to your great grandma Tillie. Then you'd muster up all the strength you had in your 28 pound body, and march over to deliver a sharp roundhouse kick in Bud's shins once again. It became an unfortunate annual event. Luckily our family has a warped sense of humor and is very forgiving.

Maybe because you were the third child or maybe because it was just your personality, but you never waited for permission for anything. You saw an opportunity and you seized it. Unknowingly you embraced one of my mottos: It's always easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission (most likely a contributing factor in my divorce, but I digress...)

You challenged your daycare and preschool teachers daily, and carried it into elementary school. Do you know how nervously I laughed when your kindergarten teacher had to inform me that you mooned the cafeteria and yelled, "Everybody, check it OUT!" You were 5.

I used to think you did it all because you liked attention. I understood that, I like attention too. But then I began to see that you knew from the very beginning that you were going to seize the opportunity in front of you, and not even bat an eyelash to someone or something that stood in your way.

You always made us laugh. You were an entertainer and a natural athlete. Dramatic and over the top. You demanded my attention, constantly. And woe is me if I didn't give you the attention you craved and needed at that very moment.

Sometimes you would be so relentless that I would snap. "Chloe Louise! Jesus, just give me a minute... I have shit to do." You didn't care. You'd follow me around and never let up.

Now in total fairness to you, there were times it was necessary. Like when you kept telling me your arm hurt and I brushed it off, only to find out a week later it was broken. There we were, standing in the doctor's office, looking at the xray as he pointed out the obvious fracture. You were about waist high, and the glare you were shooting me could have set my skin on fire. "What did I tell you MOM?" I tried not to make eye contact with you because you were in no mood to let me off the hook.

One time I took you and your brother to the park where I had a workout session planned with my trainer, The Tin Man. You were 8. After my workout we were all walking back to my car. The Tin Man looked at you and tried to make a joke. "What are you looking at?" he laughed.

You stopped, with your arms crossed across your chest and your hip slightly jutted off to the side. You gave him a slow and deliberate up and down scan with your eyes, finally looking at him straight on.

You scoffed. "You ain't all that."

The Tin Man laughed nervously and said to me in all seriousness, "She scares the shit out of me."

I nodded. "Me too. Since birth."

When I was unemployed and watching "Maury" during the day with my friend Mandy, you'd overhear us talking about how some day we were going to fly out and be in the audience for the show. Imagine how fun it was at your next school conference when your teacher mentioned, "So I understand you're going to be ON the Maury show. As a guest?" I'm not sure if you announced at Show & Tell your mom was going to take a DNA test or what, but that was one of the most memorable conferences I ever had. I always ended up doing a lot of fake laughter and hurried explanations at those meetings. Hoping like hell a social worker wasn't going to follow up with me later.

Through the years it felt like sometimes I was merely attempting just to survive being your mama. It was never easy. You were always work. You never allowed anyone to get lulled into the thought you were just one of the kids. You required attention constantly. And sorry is the person who thought they could get away with just treating you like everyone else.

But you know what else came with that package of terrifying dynamite that made up you? An amazing and beautiful explosion of love and personality and loyalty and humor and a wit so strong it takes my breath away still.

You've used your talent to create incredible art. You're able to see possibility and beauty in not only objects but in people too. Your desire to create masterpieces seems to drive you, and your ability to see beauty in others is what warms my heart. Your creativity and your talent seem endless at times, so it seems only fitting you start your next adventure at Aveda.

When your senior year in high school ended abruptly because of the pandemic, I was heartbroken for you. No prom, no senior trip to Florida. In your typical fashion, you shrugged it off and started planning for your post high school life, not wasting time with something you couldn't control.

And tomorrow morning, you move to your new apartment in Minneapolis.

It's hard for me to imagine my daily life without you part of it. I've gotten used to the effort it takes in being your mom. Slackers need not apply ~ you wouldn't last a hot minute being this girl's mother.

As much physical and emotional work as you've been Chloe, and as many tears and fights and exhaustion we've shared, I know there will always be even more love and laughter. You are addictive in that sense. We are all lucky to be in your path. I can't believe how lucky I've been to be able to be your mama.

You have been a formidable, unstoppable and unforgiving FORCE since the beginning. Combined with power and sweetness, determination and love.

I'm just in awe I gave birth to the storm.

Pandemic Parenting...WTF

Good lord, how are y'all doing?
I think I speak for most of us when I say these last four weeks feel like it's been going on for a good six months at least.
So far 2020 has been a real kick in the ass, wouldn't you agree?
Within a matter of weeks, all of our lives were turned upside down. Schools started doing e-learning, people were working at home, and almost everyone started following states' stay-at-home orders. Toilet paper suddenly became as rare as a nun in a strip club.
When I realized that my kids weren't going to be going to school for the foreseeable future and would do their homework online, I was secretly relieved. Relieved because my two youngest are in high school and pretty self sufficient. I wasn't going to have to do much, unlike those other poor souls. And by poor souls I mean the parents who are going to have to actually HOME SCHOOL their kids. I would fail my kids so miserably if I had to do that, they'd undoubtedly be repeating the same grade next year.
I'm sure there are parents out there who are CRUSHING it with this at-home stuff.
I am not one of those parents.
I'm letting them sleep in, stay up late. I don't hound them about their homework unless I get an email or call from a teacher. Then I try to pretend I'm totally aware of it and assure them it will be turned in.
I don't know what I'm doing when it comes to parenting during this pandemic. Am I talking about it enough with them? Should I bring it up more? I know they're aware of what's going on.
Before the school shut down, my daughter Chloe, a senior, said "It's bad enough we have to worry about school shootings, now we have to worry about a virus that can kill us too??"
I had no answer for her. Maybe that's why I keep things lax at home. Half the time I don't even know what day of the week it is, I just wander around the kitchen aimlessly and open the fridge 17 times in an hour. We're all just kind of surviving in our "new normal."
The other day as I was taking a shower I raised my arms to wash my hair and let out a little scream. I can't remember the last time I had that much armpit hair. I glanced at my legs and shuddered. Yikes.
"Okay little buddy," I said as I picked up the razor. "Get ready. You're gonna have your work cut out for you." Once I got done weed-whacking my legs, I felt a little more normal.
Aside from my grown out roots and my disastrous attempt to cut some layers and trim my bangs, I'm just settling into my new identity of quarantine chic.
As a mom of older children, I have to admit there are some incredible benefits of everyone being forced to stay home.
I can't remember the last time we all had a movie night, so I suggested one at the beginning of all this. At the time a couple of my daughters weren't really talking to each other; they had been mad about something for a couple weeks and it was tense at times. You can't force teens and young adults to get along like when they're little and you can threaten them with both having to wear a single over-sized  "Get Along" shirt . But when everyone was sitting on the couch watching "Contagion" and eating snacks and laughing and getting along, I actually teared up because I was so giddy. Of course they made fun of me but I didn't care. Different things make me happy as a mom now.
When I told Chloe she couldn't go on the spring break trip to Florida with her friends at the end of March, I felt awful. She was already missing prom and her birthday party and all the fun at the end of senior year.
I may have felt awful, but Chloe was furious. For some reason I was the only mom sounding the alarm on this trip. I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone... none of the other moms seem worried.
Luckily Clearwater's beaches officially closed, so I quickly sent the article to the mom planning the trip.
"Ok, we'll reschedule" she replied.
Whew, at least it wasn't just me being the overly cautious mom in the group.
Chloe was still angry. She stormed down to her room when I told her.
"Why are you mad at me?" I asked incredulously. "The trip HAS to be postponed, the beaches are closed. It's not just me saying you shouldn't go."
"Well, you saw to that didn't you?" she yelled back.
"So now I'm to blame for a GLOBAL PANDEMIC?? Ok, got it." I rolled my eyes.
If I'm getting blamed for things out of my control, then maybe things aren't all that different after all in our house. It's a little bit of"regular life" creeping back into our lives, and I'll take it.
I know in my heart things will go back to normal eventually. So I'm going to try not and beat myself up for watching too much Netflix and not enforcing stricter routines with the kids. I'm going to enjoy the nights home when we're all together, and make peace with my continual wardrobe of sweats.
We're all going to get through this, that's what is important.

So THIS is the Most Wonderful Time of the Year?!

Tuesday, December 17, 2019

Oh, December. Sweet, deceptive December. 

For more than 11 months of the year, I think of December with a nostalgia filter. I can't help but smile when I envision all the happy memories I've made with my family over the years, and all the happy memories I'm sure are to follow. In my mind the entire month is some type of Hallmark movie with twinkle lights, lightly falling snow, and apple spice candles burning.

Then, about a week after Thanksgiving, reality bitch slaps me across my face and it all sinks in. Like a horrible form of muscle memory, I remember everything that has to get done before Christmas. So with the determination of a worn and weary Russian peasant, I lower my head and get to work.

Lists are made and presents are bought. So many presents. It seems like we always have to buy for more people than we originally planned. And no ~ I don't want to be in your Secret Sister Santa Gift Exchange or whatever it's called, so please don't even ask. I can barely remember to put gas in my car at this point, much less buy and ship a gift for some woman I don't know in Indiana.

And then there's the baking. Facebook and Instagram are flooded with photos of these massive cookie baking sessions. As far as the eye can see, it's row after row of dozens of cookies. And everyone looks super happy and pleased with themselves. Like, no one's yelling and there's this aura of happiness and butter and togetherness.

I don't get it. 

Baking cookies is such a fun Christmas tradition, and of course I want to continue it. But seriously, I don't know what's more exasperating...baking with little kids or teenagers. Little kids have less of an attention span and make a bigger mess, but teenagers have their own challenges. I was so excited when all four of my kids were home on Sunday afternoon and agreed to bake cookies with me. I was downright giddy. This is going to be so great, I told myself. I am the Memory Maker extraordinaire! My children will talk about me fondly and share stories of my incredible nurturing tendencies for generations.

And it was a lot of fun for the first hour. We ditched traditional Christmas music for some old school hip hop, and everyone was laughing and getting along. I was deliriously happy. Sweet, sweet December. But eventually everyone drifted out of the kitchen into their own rooms, and I was left wrist deep in a bowl of sticky, marshmallow nuclear-waste-green Corn Flake hell.

"I'm never making wreath cookies again!" I yelled to an empty kitchen. "I mean it. I don't care how much you want them. No one helps!"

After finishing up and cleaning, I was still pretty impressed with everything they made. I warned them all that I expected them to not demolish all the cookies within a week. "Use some restraint, and try not to eat every single cookie when you get home from school. I would like the $80 I spent in baking ingredients to last more than a day."

And yesterday, not even 24 hours later, I got home to a supply of cookies that could fit into a business sized envelope.

Jesus, take the wheel.

I guess my currency for that amazingly fun time with all four of my children was paid for with sugar, Rolos, and a whole lot of almond bark. Eh, I'll take it. I know I'm on borrowed time when it comes to corralling all of the kids at home with me for certain activities. One's on her way to grad school, one's working full time, one's a senior in high school and even my youngest is 15 and has a job. Time with them is a precious commodity and parents know that all too well.

But that doesn't make what happened to me Friday night acceptable. Before I explain to you why I am so absolutely butt hurt and indignant, let me go on record and state I am a great mom when my kids are sick, especially when they were younger (as long as I don't think they're faking an illness to stay home from school). I coddle them, bring them medicine, put a cool wash cloth on their foreheads and make sure I check on them pretty regularly. And when they were really young I would catch their vomit in my hands without even flinching. Even now that they're older and they get sick, they'll still want to know when I'm coming home. Everyone wants their mama when they're sick. I get it, I do. I'm not speaking for all mothers and certainly not all women, but it makes me feel good to take care of people. 

Now let's talk about Friday and how I was betrayed by the fruit of my loins.

About two hours before I left work Friday afternoon, I started feeling like something wasn't quite right. My stomach felt weird, and I didn't have an appetite for a single thing. Nothing. That's how I first knew something was off. My fat ass is always hungry and I'm never not up for a snack, especially during a workday afternoon. I kept walking outside in the 20 degree temperature thinking I needed fresh air.

After work I ran some errands, and by 6:30 I decided to just go home. I was feeling worse and worse. By the time I got home, I walked straight past my 17 year old daughter Chloe and headed toward my bedroom. "I don't feel so good," I told her. At this point my mouth started watering like a Saint Bernard puppy and I crawled into bed. "Remember what you always tell us," Chloe called after me. "If you're not sure which end it's going to come out of, always always SIT."

Around an hour later I bolted up in bed, with my hand firmly clamped over my mouth. I ran as fast as I could to the bathroom and barely made it before I threw up. Over and over again. It was like a bad movie. Just as I'd wearily lift my hand up to flush the toilet, I'd puke again. Now I'm clutching the bathroom rug and barely able to get up from a fetal position. I hadn't even had time to shut the bathroom door all the way, and our house isn't all that big, so it's not like you can't hear what's going on. The bathroom is literally less than 20 feet from the living room couch. In my delirium I turned into Caroline Ingalls and told myself surely the children will come looking for me. 

After what seemed like an eternity but was probably more like 25 minutes, I dragged my sweaty self back to my room and prayed to the baby Jesus to spare me from such a horrific, literally gut-wrenching experience. I eventually fell asleep, with dried vomit at the ends of my hair and wearing one sock. 

The next morning I felt almost 100% better so I knew it wasn't the flu, and was most likely a nice little bout of food poisoning.

I cornered Chloe in the kitchen not long after she woke up. "Didn't you HEAR me last night when you were watching tv? I had food poisoning and was in the THROES OF DEATH puking my guts out and you didn't even check on me! I could have hit my head and been laying there for hours unconscious and no one would have even known." 

"Oh for real?" she asked. "I heard you but I actually thought you had the soupy poopies so I just turned the volume up on the tv remote. Because you know, gross." She shrugged.

Any other time of year I would be horrified at my apparent lack of instilling basic empathy into my children, but in December I'm just trying to survive. Physically, financially, emotionally... this month takes a toll on us parents but let's be honest - it can be brutal for moms. We want our kids to have the best Christmases - not just with gifts but with holiday experiences and memories - and we work ourselves to the point of exhaustion trying to make it happen.

I don't know about you other moms out there, but starting at 11 am on Christmas I am reclaiming my sanity. And all of January is going to be about ME. I will not bake anything, I will not decorate anything, I will not wrap anything and I for sure will not be holding anyone's hair back when they barf. I mean it.

Not unless they ask really nice. And then when I'm rubbing their back and putting a cool washcloth on their sweaty little brows, I'll lean forward and whisper "See how nice it is when someone doesn't leave you writhing in pain and despair on the bathroom floor all alone?"

I'm sure they'll appreciate my nurturing even more.

That One Time I Accidentally, Almost...Tried to be a Porn Star

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...YOU taught ME...

From the moment you arrived in this world, one week late and taking your own sweet time, I knew my time with you would be different from what I expected. Your sister was an easy baby, an easy toddler.
Not you.
The second I held you in my arms, your dad and I burst out laughing. "Look at her face," I said, "she is so dang angry!" And your perfect little mouth was pursed and you had your brows all furrowed...and then you let out a howl.
And oh boy, did you howl. And didn't stop.
You were a colicky baby, and for two hours every night I had to carry you with my hand on your stomach and you facing forward. I walked back and forth in the living room non-stop...it was the only thing that would make you stop crying. Those were the days before a Fit Bit would have told me how many steps I had taken. All I knew is that it made you feel better, and the howling would stop.
From the very, very beginning, you made your presence known. If you weren't happy with a situation, you made sure we all knew it. I felt incredibly inadequate with you at the beginning. Why weren't you happier? What was I doing wrong?
I tried nursing you and had to give it up after a couple weeks. "Oh my god," I'd whimper, with bags of frozen peas on my chest. "She's chewing my damn nipples right off."
Then you grew out of the newborn stage and couldn't wait to get to the next stage.
You crawled.
You walked.
You ran.
One time I had you at my aunt Patti's house and my cousin Jenni and I were watching you while you kept walking to the stereo and pressing buttons that you weren't supposed to. You were about 18 months old.
"Sophie Rose," I'd admonish, trying not to laugh. "You are being naughty and going to get your hand slapped if you keep doing that." And you'd look over your shoulder to make sure I was still watching and then you'd press all the buttons again.
You always loved seeing our reactions when you did the unexpected.
All through your toddler and pre-school years you challenged me as a mother. I used to laugh and say to others, "Oh, she is my firecracker for sure. She is a pistol." But deep down I used to worry, "What was I doing wrong? Why can't I get through to her?"
Before you started kindergarten I had convinced myself that I wouldn't be the blubbering mess that I was when your older sister had started. I knew that independent streak of yours would make you so ready for school, there was no doubt in my mind. I knew school was the best thing for you.
Your first day arrived and I was fine, smiling as you raced ahead of me down the hallway heading toward your classroom. Something happened to me though once I saw your name on your little cubby.
My throat tightened up and I felt tears well up in my eyes. "Jesus Christ, pull it together," I told myself. I went into the room where the teachers and principal talked to the parents. I heard the opening speech's lines of "We know you are entrusting us with your most prized possession..." and then I lost it. I cried so hard one of the teacher's took me aside and tried to console me. I couldn't figure out why I was such a wreck. I mean, I know I'm a crier but jeez...
It was so much fun seeing you get that excited for school. After a couple days though I got a call from your teacher. Turns out you were pretty homesick for your momma. You'd cry during class and they even called your sister Frankie in from her 2nd grade class to comfort you. That night after I got that call, I knelt down next to you and gave you a cross necklace of mine. "Wear this," I told you. "And whenever you get lonesome for me doing the day, just touch the necklace and think of me and know I'm going to see you soon." And you wore it every day for weeks, until you no longer got sad.
Throughout your years of growing up you continued to never back down for what you wanted. Your love of horses showed early, and we made sure you were around them as often as it would allow. I was always so impressed by your lack of fear.
If I could think of one word to describe you, it would be 'Fierce.'
You've been fierce in your determination, fierce in your loyalty, and fierce in your beliefs.
Out of all my children, you have been my biggest challenge. You had no fear in standing up to me or challenging me. But also out of all my children, you remind me the most of myself when I was younger. That insane desire to keep things private, the need to go against authority or fight the status quo. I get it, I do. You are my mini-me in that regard.
I see you now, so ready to conquer the world. Your determination impresses me.
Don't get me wrong...I have spent many, many days and nights wondering if I was screwing it up with you. Why didn't you listen? Why didn't you care if I was mad or grounding you? What was I doing wrong? How would I ever teach you life's important lessons if you were constantly challenging me?
But in the end, it was YOU who taught ME.
You taught me that parenting is an ever-evolving process.
You taught me just as no two children are alike, no parenting style is as well.
You taught me that success in parenting is measured in many ways.
And most of all, you taught me that one of my greatest joys is being your momma.
I can't wait to see how you conquer your world, Sophie Rose.
I love you fiercely.

The Ultimate Relay Race of Parenting (or How 'bout Helping your Mother out and Grabbing the F'in Baton?!?)

Ah, the Olympics.
Every four years the event comes around and I am hooked. My addictive personality kicks into full gear and my obsessive little competitive soul gets the nourishment it craves.
That's right. For 16 days my ass rarely leaves the couch during the evening hours.
I suck up all the statistics and devour all the back stories.
"For crying out loud," I'll say to an empty living room, since the kids aren't nearly as enticed as I am, and have long disappeared from my view. "That poor girl was a REFUGEE and swam three hours to GREECE to flee to safety. Now she's competing in the Olympics. Can you even believe it?"
Silence.
"Hey, did you guys know Michael Phelps arm length spans 80 inches from finger tip to finger tip?"
Crickets.
I know they're all just biding their time until this whole thing is over and their mother returns to "normal."
I'm pretty sure they haven't had anything more than a Hot Pocket for dinner since opening ceremonies. Whatever. They're still better off than that poor Syrian swimmer when she was in the refugee camp.
Now my latest fascination has been the women's 4 x 100 relay race. The determination, the importance of the hand-off, the do-over, the finish...
Makes me think of the stages of parenting.
All the stages, all the roles, all the sprints - they're all important.
Your first stage- the beginning position... that's like when the gun goes off in the race and the baby is born. You're just running like crazy, especially if you're a first time parent. You're not even sure if you're doing it right, you just know you have to survive. You have to survive the sleepless nights, the endless worries. "Lord, Jesus," you think to yourself. "Just let me get through this and get to a stage where this baby is sleeping through the night and I have time to shave my legs again."
Then comes the second position. In relay races, this is often the fastest sprinter. And in parenting, this strategy makes sense. Because as a parent you're always sprinting to get things done in this stage - you're running them to school, you're racing them to activities, you're always on the go, go, go. You think this stage of your life will never end. You look at couples who don't have young children and practically go insane with envy.
There are some race theories that state the worst runner is in the third position of a relay. I don't like the term "worst." I think that runner may not run as fast as the others, but they're just as important. Just like when the third stage of parenting starts. As a mom, I may not be sprinting as fast as I was earlier, but my work is just as important. I have to continue with the baton, and keep racing toward the hand-off. Now I have to make sure my kids have the all-important life skills necessary to continue on their own leg of the race. While I'm still running around and making sure their basic needs are being met, I'm now trying to install a sense of pride, hard work and social responsibility into their incredible little personalities. I'm still running in this third position, determined to do my role on this relay team. But it's tiring, all this running. You still want to make sure you're doing your part so they can win this race.
And one of the most physically and emotionally exhausting things you can do in the parenting relay is when you finally reach the next runner's extended hand, and hand off the baton of responsibilities. In this case, the next runner is your teenager. You watch them sprint off, the so-called "best runner", and take off at an unbelievable speed toward their future. You're wiped out, bent over with your hands on your knees, watching them.
Finally you stand straight, take a deep breath and yell after them, "Now go win this bitch!"