The New York Times describes the resolution to the ongoing story of my uncle Richard Hamilton's contribution to the solving of the Poincaré conjecture and the interesting personalities involved. I've written about it here, years ago.

The idea of Perelman declining because he didn't deserve full credit is just fantastic. What a renegade! At what point does standing on principle make you an eccentric?

My parents enjoy a month in France each summer. Now that wifi is largely available, we get periodic updates from them, and photos that my mother has taken. Very twenty-first century. Today's e-mail, however, suggests that they are in a place beyond time.

"Delays and detours to my limited vision are actually the perfect path unfolding to a higher eye." —Julia Cameron

I had a blast at the New York Marathon—not just during the race itself, but for the whole long weekend. There's a full report at my site, mostly pictorial. Marvel at Joan Benoit Samuelson, the bunny-head runner, and the crowds! Thrill as I pose pretentiously in front of banners! Sigh at the cuteness of my children in Halloween costumes! Find it here.

I often start class by introducing myself: "I'm Sage Rountree. And yes, that's my real name—it's not a yoga handle. I got Sage from my parents and Rountree from my husband."

My maternal grandfather—who reportedly also worked as a driver for General Eisenhower—was stationed on a British fishing vessel on D-Day, and he had to commandeer the boat after its captain, trying to cope with his nerves before sunrise, drank too much.

Vivi and Wes strike catalog poses at the Washington Monument, overlooking the Lincoln Memorial

It's National Walk to School Day, which we celebrated in the same way we do every other weekday: walking to school. It's one of the many upsides of living in a mixed-use community (downsides include tiny yards). Yesterday, for example, I took the girls to school, went to work, taught two classes, went to the grocery (well, actually, I didn't, but I could have), picked the girls up, dropped them off at a play date, and retrieved them from the play date. And I did it all on foot.

I often say that mothers are good at triathlon because much of it is about organization and management. To wit, another transition practice:

Ad Hoc

We are in California, spending a few days in Napa before heading up to Lake Tahoe for Wes's sister's wedding. Tuesday was a very busy day, with the flight out; navigating SFO; a delicious late lunch at the Sausalito Taco Shop; a precipitous drive up to and down from Muir Woods; a hike through the park there, which was filled with Europeans, apparently taking advantage of the dollar's weakness; and finally the drive to Napa, during which the rental car GPS and I disagreed vehemently several times yet finally learned to get along, prompting a family discussion about the importance of admitting when you are wrong. The last few minutes of the drive were enhanced by listening to my brother, John Hamilton, host the 6:00 news live on KPFA.

Two of now-five-year-old Vivi's great spoonerisms from the past two days.

One creative way Vivi and I have spent our week—apart from watching ABBA videos on YouTube—was a trip to the Red Cross blood drive. Vivi was fascinated by the process; as she watched the blood leaving my arm, she suggested, "You'd better drink a lot of wine."

Now that summer's (almost officially) here, I have to be creative to get work done. Lily is at camp all week, but four-year-old Vivi is home and waiting to be entertained. After a weekend of overstimulation, she really needed a nap today. I let her choose any surface in the house for her nap (my bed? the futon in the bonus room?), and, as she did last summer, she chose my home office couch. It's backed with throw pillows that let her really nestle in.

There are a few spots left in the Swim for Smiles kids' triathlon, held in Chapel Hill on June 1. The distances are quite kind, and parents are encouraged to bike and run alongside their children 10 and under.

One of my athletes raced the St. Croix 70.3 yesterday. Once I found where to track him online, I was very excited to see he was leading his age group both out of the water and off the bike. Out I went with Lily for her first brick (she swam a relaxed-looking 100 in under 3:00, and while she's still cautious and wobbly on the bike, her run cadence is a thing of beauty). When we got back, I quickly checked the race results.

He lost the lead, and the age group win, by 11 seconds.

I ran the gamut of emotions: shock, denial, bargaining (maybe the other guy had a penalty still to be added in), wishful thinking (maybe there'd be two Kona slots for the age group, or a concession based on how close it was), and nerves about how he'd handle it.

But when we spoke a few hours after the race, my apprehension gave way to delight. He sounded thrilled with the finish, and while our cell-phone connection was breaking up, the tone of his voice said it all. It was a RACE, after five hours, when he was caught in the last mile as they headed into town, shoulder to shoulder. He ran as hard as he could—a full-out sprint after almost 13 miles of hilly running—but the other guy, a former collegiate runner and current cross-country and track coach, was simply faster. The competition excited him, and he expressed no regrets at all.

So much for my worries, my guessing how it would feel. He coached me on how to enjoy the moment and take what you get. Thanks, Travis.

In the final session of our class explorations of the yamas, we focused on ishvara pranidhana, surrender to the divine ("Thy will be done"). The practice was bracketed with metta mediations, a dedication of loving kindness and recognition that our yoga is about something bigger than the physical activities that go on.

Sunday, we took off the training wheels on Lily's bike. She and I began the lesson with learning how to fall (tuck arms to chest and roll), first on the grass with no bike, then on the grass with the bike. Next we went up and down the bike path until she had mastered the art of stopping, steering, and starting, in that order. (Think what foot you want to put down before you stop, I advised her, admitting that sometimes I forget to do that and wind up tipping over, feet still clipped in!)

Walking home from school, Lily asked me if I knew what a triangular prism looked like.

If you check out the Google Maps Street View of our house and street, you'll see Wes walking over to the Wellness Center pool (one block away). From the light, I can see that it's early morning; it's Thursday, because the recycling is out. He's wearing jammers, an old T-shirt, and his favorite bike hat. Freaky!

We enjoyed a family vacation to New York City—Vivi's first time on a plane—last weekend. The girls enjoyed the uptown sights (some cell-phone pictures here), and Wes and I had a great meal at Aix, a Provencal-influenced restaurant with Chapel Hill ties. The short list—only four items sold—at Una Pizza Napoletana (pizza with sauce, pizza without sauce; pizza with cheese, pizza without cheese) thawed my usual choice paralysis. The girls' favorite thing, apart from the Central Park Zoo: riding in a taxi (Viv) and a "service car" (car service, Lily), sans child seats or even seatbelts. Taking a cue from triathlon body marking, we wrote our cell numbers and the address of our apartment on the girls' arms using a Sharpie!

Manta finally showed some spunk by chewing up a cat toy while the girls and I were at the gym (the first time we've left her alone for more than an hour). She also decided that Sparkle the unicorn should be merely a horse. I find this hilarious, if a bit foreboding. Do unicorn horns have magical properties?

Update: Second casualty: now she's eaten just the eyes off a stuffed snake. What strange brew is she working on?

We have a new addition to the family, a lovely eight-month-old puppy we've named Manta Ray. (Her ears fan out and flap just like ray wings, and it works with the sea theme begun with Shark.) She was part of an adoption fair run by the APS of Orange County—what wonderful people! Manta walked up to us as we approached the fair and we were goners. She's been in a fabulous foster home for a while and is a dream dog: housebroken, quiet, sweet. We were even a little alarmed at how mellow she was yesterday. We didn't hear her voice until she met Quince and whined with excitement. She slept without a peep all night and seemed refreshed and ready to play this morning. I hope in time to train her to retrieve the paper.

I hadn't realized how much I missed the sound of canine teeth on Kong rubber!

She is obviously part pit bull, and the shelter folks think part basset hound, too. To me, she looks like a souped-up Jack Russell. But her proportions—long and low, with slightly turned-out feet—mean she can't jump. She's forty pounds of muscle.


Welcome, Manta Ray!

Last week Wes received a promotional razor with, seriously, five blades on it. We were reminded of this brilliant Onion piece, with its memorable line, "I don't care if they have to cram the fifth blade in perpendicular to the other four, just do it!"


Today, while stocking up on paper products at Super Target, I learned they're now making toilet paper with three rolls' worth on one cylinder. More is more.

An instant classic from the girls' favorite new show.

We were conveniently at my parents' house when my brother called with the happy news of his engagement. As the guest teacher at his girlfriend Mattie's ESL class, he gave a presentation on love. The vocabulary included variations on the theme, and toward the end of the lecture, he asked what a man would say when he loved a woman and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Though the class wasn't sure, John knew: he got down on one knee, took a ring from his pocket, looked Mattie in the eye, and said, "Will you marry me?"

He has witnesses to prove she said yes!

My daughters were delighted by the news, especially when I cleared up a misunderstanding. "When Uncle John going underground?" Vivi asked.

"Underground?"

"When he get married."

"Oh, no, honey, that's buried. Not married!"

Sometime tomorrow night summer officially begins. Ours is here already, with the girls both out of school. We enjoyed a family vaction to beautiful Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, land of beachfront high-rises and hundreds of golf courses. Lily says her favorite part was playing miniature golf (it was pretty great).

Mine, though, was the Dixie Stampede. It's a dinner show, set around a big dirt arena on which trick riders and sundry animals (buffalo, ostrich, pigs, and the requisite horses) reenact the drama of American history, culminating in a competition between the North and the South. The arena is divided in half; we were positioned among those rooting for the South. For a while it looked like we were going to revise history—our riders were better at jousting for rings, our representative was better at throwing a toilet-seat "horseshoe." But we couldn't pass a flag down each row fast enough, and the North wound up victorious.

Throughout all of this, we enjoyed (sans utensils) a well-choreographed meal of vegetable soup in heavy "cream" (I'm unsure of its dairy status) with a biscuit, a whole chicken (yes, for everyone, a whole chicken, to be eaten with the hands), a slab of pork loin, a potato, corn (because each meal needs a vegetable), and a surprisingly wonderful apple turnover. The only beverage choices: unlimited Pepsi, sweet tea, or coffee.

The show culminated in an increasingly loud and frenzied patriotic number. Dolly Parton loomed on the big screen, singing about the red, white, and blue and justice for all; white doves were released; the "soldiers" waved flags. When the announcer demanded, "So I ask you one question: ARE YOU PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAN???" there was a round of explosions (fireworks? inside?!?!?). I had a cathartic moment (or a minor freakout). I couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry, so I froze somewhere in the middle, my face convulsing in what probably looked like alternating versions of the Greek tragedy and comedy masks. Wes was actually concerned. Certainly the sugar and caffeine were big contributors.

The next day, I lay on the beach a few feet away from two soldiers on what seemed to be weekend leave. "Think about it, man," one of them said as he lit a Winston, "Iraq is just like this, only without the water."

With Wes away, I'm left carrying the torch, performing all the nightly chores: laundry, dishes, vacuuming, etc. It may be a funny-page truism, but at least taking the garbage out gives you a chance to enjoy the night sky.

Wes is in China, working, eating pigeon, and hiking the Great Wall.

Tuesday night, the girls and I walked to our local pizzeria. It was beautiful weather, and we sat outside, sipping Sprite (them) and beer (me). All was right with the world. Then Vivi noticed the overweight middle-aged woman sitting behind her.

"She's fat!" she announced.

A fervent conversation ensued in the bathroom.

I knew Viv got the point when yesterday, at the gelateria (and no, we don't live in Italy, we're just lucky to have good food in Chapel Hill), we heard a beautiful young woman speaking Portuguese to her brother. Lily's ears pricked up, her head turned, and we began a conversation about where Brazil is and what language is spoken there.

Vivi, turning to take in the girl, said, "She is not fat!"

With Lily at her grandparents' on spring break, we told Vivi we'd take her out to a fancy restaurant. We had a picture-perfect evening at Provence, dining al fresco and enjoying a great meal. After some initial hesitation because they didn't have their shells on (as she's accustomed to), Vivi even enjoyed the escargots. The maître d' was impressed.

I've finally posted a new podcast episode. It's a strength-building workout, with long holds of chair, chair with a twist, and the warrior poses. Strength and stretching at the same time, all good. I was glad I could hold the poses long enough for Wes to snap the pictures—we both ran a 20K (and both negative-split it, hooray!) that morning and my legs were feeling the pavement miles. This flow was his idea, as was the book whose writing explains the long stretch between podcast episodes. An idea man, and a dishwasher and laundryman to boot. What more could a gal ask for?

We are unabashed American Idol fans—yes, even Wes. Lily does her own judging, with hand gestures: "I like the song. The singer, not so much."

I was delighted to see some press this morning about a new movement, Birthdays without Pressure. I thought I was merely being curmudgeonly when I tried to singlehandedly buck the party-favor-bag trend. One year, I handed out plastic rats to Lily's guests. This year, we scheduled her birthday party—only three days ahead of time—as a small playdate and billed it as "no gifts, no favors." Everyone still brought a gift.

Our goddaughter has just turned seven, and her party this weekend was just right. A quick bite of pizza, a decent cake, and we were all unleashed into the wilds of the local skating rink, where we were left to our own disorganized devices. In our case, it meant propping up the girls for a 3/4 loop of the rink, from one door to the other, with them in tears for most of the circuit.

The single best kid's birthday party I've attended as an adult was a book exchange. Everyone brought a wrapped book, the books were redistributed, and everyone left with a new book. There was some trading to prevent overlap, but it went off smoothly, without the concomitant cheap bubble solution, unsanitary bendy straw, stickers, pencil, and candy. (The second best had those things, but it also had champagne cocktails for the grown-ups and homemade pizza for everyone.)

Just downloaded the pictures I took before this morning's dusting of snow melted. I used Lily's point-and-shoot camera for fear of slipping and dropping the digital SLR. These were some of the images already on the camera, and they beat my snow shots by a mile. Pure bizarre kid-photographer genius. Vivi is upside down.

Another reason to change your running shoes every 350–500 miles.

I'm collecting a bag of used running shoes for my Kenyan friend Henry to ship to his hometown, where youths will be pleased to have them. What a contrast to our Western approach. Here, we build shoes like the Nike Free to emulate running barefoot.

Julee's one-shoed run put her with one foot literally in either camp. What a fertile story. It may find its way into my book as a lesson in nonattachment and living in the present, and I'm writing it up for Endurance Magazine. In the course of working on that piece, I learned that an ATV had been stuck in that very same mud for three hours during course marking! The race director found it "18 inches deep in guck" because Julee gave him such specific directions about where she'd lost it.

Banjo, a longtime pipe smoker, recited his creation from memory at Lily's birthday dinner.

PURIFIED SANTA by Billy Hamilton (c) 2003 (pass it on)

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the manse,
The purification of air was enhanced.

The filters were nestled all snug in their trays
While the ventless gas fireplace made a clean blaze.

The stocking were draped on the sofa with care
Because the old chimney was no longer there.

The tree artificial with children-safe lights
Gave no allergenics to mess up our nights.

The rodent repeller with ultrasound screech
Made sure that no mouse had yet conquered the breach.

Mama in her kerchief and I in my truss
Had just settled down for a nap just for us,

When up on the roof there arose such a ruckus,
I went to see who could be trying to ---------!!

And up on the roof I beheld a fat man
Whose belly's as big as the Land of Japan;

"Ho ho" said the fat man all lively and quick,
I could tell at a glance that he must be a -------!

"Oh, where is your chimney, kind mister?" he asked.
I said "We've no chimney, we did in the past,

But now that clean gas logs have come into view,
We closed up the chimney and threw out the flu."

"Well, how can I bring these nice presents inside?"
said the man who was fat in a tone that was snide.

I saw that a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled a dangerous wreath.

So I said to St. Nicholas, "You must be joking!!
You never can come in the house while you're smoking!!"

The fat man just stopped and looked down from the roof,
And he said, "If you feel that way, I'll just go poof!!"

So laying a finger inside of his nose,
And giving a nod, to the heavens he rose,

But I heard him exclaim ere he drove out of sight,
"My matches are gone, SOMEONE GIVE ME A LIGHT!!!"

Dear Gear 1 Music Sales Department,

I ordered a Seiko DM50 metronome from you last week. This morning at 5:41 a.m., the post office called to say they had a ticking package addressed to me. They were very alarmed, as were my husband and I to hear the phone ring before dawn. Now that the sun is up, it seems more funny, though his Christmas gift will no longer be a surprise—I was shouting "It's a metronome!" into the receiver.

I won't see the packaging till the mail comes late today, but in the future, you might consider shipping these units without batteries!

Yours,
Sage R.

The girls loved their annual wrestle with crazy Cousin Jay. What makes this even more impressive: he's sitting down.

After a long weekend of eating (not one, but TWO Thanksgiving meals) and food-related tension (vegans vs. carnivores: the showdown), I cooked a basic pot roast last night. While looking up the recipe, I noticed a simple recipe for lush, puddingy hot chocolate, like they make in Europe, the kind characters in eighteenth-century novels enjoy. So when the girls started their nightly litany ("Cam I have something to dessert?" —Vivi; "Did I eat enough for, you know, D-E-S-S-E-R-T?" —Lily), I capitulated.

Holy cup of chocolate. We drink a lot of hot chocolate, but words can't describe how good this was. Simple, simple: cream, chocolate, a little sugar, and a marshmallow toasted on the burner. Together: whoa. The girls ran through every superlative they could think of. Wes scarfed it down, grunted, and fell into a chocolate coma on the couch. I just kept shaking my head as I scraped my tiny mug clean.

It's the perfect illustration of the epigraph for this blog. Talking about the hot chocolate makes it even better.

If you want to experience it yourself, it's worth buying the whole cookbook, Sarah Foster's Fresh Every Day. The pot roast wasn't bad, either.

Along with Lily's first kindergarten report card came the results of her first fitness assessment, the dreaded (to me, at least) President's Challenge Physical Fitness Program. (Say what you like about our president—and I know we could say a lot—at least he's in good shape. Here's one area where he's no hypocrite.)

She performed miserably on the cruel flex-arm hang and curl-ups, prompting the computer evaluation to suggest she try "working with dumbbells 3–4 times per week." (Sure, I'll have her do some biceps curls while watching Between the Lions.)

But according to the results, she ran a quarter mile in 1:45. That's a 7:00/mile pace. Where did that come from?

What makes me happiest is that despite suffering the indignities of the "sit and reach," she still loves P.E. class.

True to character, a fairy and a devil.

The neighborhood was hopping last night, with a fair number of older kids out early. As Wes pointed out, if you're talking on your cell phone, you're probably too old to be trick-or-treating.

I've been in lockdown, busy with work, submitting the first chapter of my book to my editor, teaching a lot, and trying to recover from my race in Pinehurst. This weekend marks the end of tri season, at last. It's been a long year, with 10 triathlons, the little duathlon, and the odd running race.

Saturday is the championship invitational race for the NC Tri Series. It's going to be very, very small, with around 150 participants, and all of them competitive in their respective groups. I fear I blew the wad in Pinehurst with my run, since I still feel pooped, but if that's the case, I can still have fun going slower. I feel very supported by the goodwill of my family, the race wheels a friend is loaning me (what to use has been the topic of conversation at her bike shop all week), the necklace my running group is passing around (it's my week with it), and the camaraderie of my friends in the age group and outside of it. For good measure, I saw my Kenyan friend Henry running this morning, and he wished me luck.

Having friends like these is winning. The rest is incidental.

Saturday afternoon is the awards banquet for the tri series. I asked Lily to be my guest. "What's a banquet?" she asked. "Well, they'll give prizes and we'll eat lunch—there will definitely be dessert." "Dessert? I think I could get into that." (This is her new catchphrase to indicate assent.)

Sunday is the ladies' race across the street from my house, and many of my students and clients are participating. I'll roll over there at 6 a.m. on creaky legs to mark them with Sharpies, direct them on the run course, and enjoy their celebrations. Big weekend.

Lily is reading Go, Dog, Go! out loud on the couch in my office. I am working.

"Get up! It is day. Time to get up. Go, dogs, go! Where are they going?"

The images that flash and are superimposed on the screen defy the controlling orderliness of conventional narrative. Keller does not eliminate the dark corners that do not fit a predetermined story. She includes, rather, all the contradictory, obscure, and mysterious images and sounds in a prismatic structure that documents her own experience of the place that formed her.

"Go, dogs, go, to the top of the tree. Up there on top of the tree. A dog party. A dog party. A big dog party."

The film differs, however, in both its overt political intentions and in its imagery, for Keller has moved here from the natural and familial world to one in which found footage plays an important role. Just as her unfinished book project sought to examine women’s films that deranged patriarchal constructs by manipulating media manifestations of them, this last film contrasts two versions of a world she knows well: the narrow descriptions of women’s lives offered by Hollywood and a dominating male voice, as opposed to the far richer version created by the wide-open eyes of the experimental artist fully aware of cinema’s potential.

"'And now do you like my hat?' 'I do! What a hat. I like it. I like that party hat.'"

We caught this the other night while channel surfing. Lily and Vivi were intrigued, understandably.



Pica expounds.

The photocopied art from the goth collection I edited in the spring is still in the coloring-paper stack. When Lily asked me to staple a sheaf of papers labeled "Harold and the Purple Crayon," her tribute to the Crockett Johnson book, I didn't think much of it. Until, that is, she announced her intention to take her creation to school for show and tell.

Obviously, the juxtaposition of low-res bondage images and a kindergartener's drawings isn't the stuff of circle time. I'm photocopying the rectos and excising the versos to make a new, more appropriate book.

Vivian Rountree, "I Did It." Mixed media (washable ink on natural fur), 2006.

The New Yorker has more than you probably wanted to know about the personalities of these mathematicians.

My sweet cousin Andrew, Dicky's only child, could waterski barefoot on Lake Cayuga. I was always impressed by that, though I was terrified of the glacier lake itself—reportedly thousands of feet deep, very dark, very cold, surrounded by looming cliffs (to my seven-year-old's eye).

The last time we saw Dicky, he was discussing the topography of the ice cube melting in his glass of Scotch.

The AP reports that Perelman, pictured below, didn't show up in Madrid, where my uncle Dicky gave the keynote speech at the big math convention.

Incidentally, big brows are in.

This article, on pages 2 and 3, talks about my uncle Dicky's contributions to the resolution of the Poincaré objective. There's a picture of him on page 2, and a classic note on page 3 that he "did not respond to requests for an interview."

My hometown race was yesterday—not my A race but the most important to me, psychologically, of the season. It took place in my neighborhood, with the transition area across the street from my house, in the parking lot of the UNC Wellness Center, where I spend a lot of my time teaching and swimming.

A number of my students and friends did the race, and all finished with big smiles, even though I saw a lot of gritted teeth as they headed up the hill running out of T2. (Sarah L., when I shouted "Looking great!" replied, "And feeling like utter shit!" But she had the biggest grin of all afterward as she headed home to pick up her baby and put away stacks of diner pancakes.) One of my students won his age group—although, as he said he'd have to point out to his grandchildren, as the only man in the 65–69 group, he was also the last in his category. Another, a former collegiate runner, was second masters female, in her very first triathlon—and she rode a crummy old mountain bike. My client Julee took third masters female coming off two weeks of intense kayaking vacation. And my student Julie L., riding her bike for the fourth time this year, handily beat me with her fast run. I can't take credit for these performances, except maybe Julee's fast transitions, which put her one second over the next woman, but it was a blast to witness.

My sister-in-law took Lily and Vivi, still in pajamas, up the block to watch the runners pass. Situated at the top of that hill out of T2, they apparently saw a lot of walking as the morning wore on. Vivi shouted to one, "Why you not running?"

So, ladies, with the state's first women's-only race on the horizon October 22, I, too, ask, "Why you not running?" If the answer is that you don't know how, come to the clinic Monette Williams and I are teaching at the Wellness Center. We'll start on Tuesday, September 12, at 6:30 p.m. and meet for six weeks, ninety minutes per class, discussing and practicing everything you'll need to earn your own grin of satisfaction. $125 for members, $150 for nonmembers, with child care available. Call the Wellness Center at 966-5500 to register.

Watching the Hall of Fame Game on NBC last night (nice graphics—the bottom of the screen is definitely a good call), Lily and I got into a discussion of the Panthers' 2006 prospects. She was jacked up about number 19, though she couldn't recall his name off the top of her head. I patronizingly told her, "Oh, you're thinking of Delhomme, number 17," but she was firm. We checked the Media Guide Griley provided us, but it had too much information and not enough indexing.

"Isn't there a place to look on the computer?" she asked.

Lily and Wes came to the study. "I think his name is something like Keyshawn," she remembered.

Yep. (And duh.) That's my girl!

After seeing Pica's startling results on this quiz—which, incidentally, are also Wes's results, and also right on—I'm not surprised to find the description below very apt. Except, that is, the rubbish about orange-red and the stuff that follows. I wonder if there's been a test to determine whether subjects always read themselves into descriptions like this. I know Wes will nod emphatically about mundane tasks being draining for me!

Your Birthdate: August 10

Independent and dominant, you tend to be the alpha dog in most situations. You're very confident, and hardly anything ever shakes you. Mundane tasks tend to drain you - you prefer to be making great plans. You are quite original. When people don't "get" you, it bothers you a lot. Your strength: Your ability to gain respect Your weakness: Caring too much what others think Your power color: Orange-red Your power symbol: Letter X Your power month: October

The girls are at separate grandparents', both being treated royally. Vivi has learned to jump into the pool on her own.

After surviving two lake swims in a race last weekend, this weekend Wes is going to do his first race that's just his. It took a lot of convincing for me to be permitted to come cheer.

Meanwhile, we're getting lots of work done. I wrote twelve pages of my book!

If you want to see two beautiful photos of me looking silly, click over to Race Athlete and scroll down, or click here. The upper one was an outtake from one of Bear's photography class projects. It looks to me like a deodorant ad, but the art of the photographer is evident. The lower photo is evidence of the magic power of my trail shoes, which double as pistols. (Note the whiff of smoke at the top of the shot.) Again, though, you can see that Wes is not a bad photographer, either.

Speaking of Bear, apparently her hang glider crash landed, leaving her with bruised arms and a slight concussion. Good thing she didn't take her fancy camera on board! The company, however, documented the flight, so I hope to grab a scan of those pictures soon.

My parents just called from France to remind me of where to find their wills. Tomorrow, they plan to hang glide off a mountain.

Despite what my name might imply, they aren't ex-hippie thrill seekers. My father is a college dean and Russian professor; Mom teaches at a private school and is a very good cook. They walk slowly. They rode their bikes 15K in an hour and a half today. (Granted, they're in the mountains. But Dad told me he once was passed by a runner while riding his bike uphill.) That makes this announcement even more exciting.

And if I should need to find a will later this week, I'd be devastated—and very proud.

While my mother is in Switzerland, I have to take over as family photographer. Apparently, even an idiot like me can take an interesting picture through trial and error. What F-stop? What shutter speed? No clue. The best part: the darkness and bluriness obscure the hot fudge covering Lily's shirt and face.

Yes, Kika came over for a lovely visit, introducing me to the dangerous joy of Vietnamese coffee. She witnessed Vivi's restaurant wildness (mild wildness, comparatively), Lily's "magic" tricks that make coins disappear (Lily now says she wants to be a scientist by day and a magician by night), and my lame attempt to fill in the crossword puzzle.

My problem is that once my brain has conceived of an answer, I immediately begin to fill it in—in pen. Four letter word, clue "Actor Grant," must be CARY. ("Or Hugh," Kika pointed out, after I'd precipitously filled in CARY.) Ingredient in gas, starts ETH, must be ETHANOL. Never mind that it didn't fit, there was room for the L outside the grid (ETHANE). And I was convinced that a five-letter word for confidence was BALLS. (TRUST.)

It's a character flaw: shoot first, ask questions later. I wouldn't have finished the puzzle without Kika's help, because I quickly lose patience when it gets too hard. Again, character flaw.

In part to combat our pigeon problem, and mostly for companionship, we brought home a tabby kitten from the animal shelter. (What a relief to find that it's not a sad place to visit; I'd imagined it as much more poignant than it is, and the volunteers were wonderful.)


In keeping with Guava's name, and after consulting a food encyclopedia, we've named him Quince. He came home yesterday and spent much of the night roaming, purring loudly, and nesting in my hair.

An added benefit: now it's not all about Vivian, who is quickly adjusting to not being the absolute center of attention.

1. I have had my hypothesis confirmed: it feels worse for me as a fan to lose a Super Bowl than it does to win a Stanley Cup. In 2003, when Adam Vinatieri ruined my best chance at happiness, I was gloomy for a full three days. My hockey interest is much lower, but I got only three hours of pleasure, tops, from the Canes' victory. I believe when the Panthers win it all, I will not be glad for as long as I was upset after their loss.

2. Lily got scooped up by a hunky lifeguard at the pool today. He had great instincts: she was doing her vertical doggie paddle (and I sat watching, thinking, "Boy, her doggie paddle is vertical!") but tired and started to panic. He said, "I could see it in her expression." She was embarrassed; I was very pleased at his quick reaction.

3. There's an updated picture at my home page, which I put as full background. It's fanny-forward, but I liked the green grass, so I kept as is. For all my efforts, I can't get the lower two links darker. I welcome feedback on its appearance.

4. Our buddies are moving to Vermont for culinary school and selling their awesome house in Durham. It's on a luxe park, half a block from the American Tobacco Trail (great running, riding, and an easy walk to good beer on tap). Here is their listing:

704 E. Forest Hills Blvd., Durham NC
$348,500
Contact Bryan C. Andregg 919-612-2509 or
bandregg@loopback.net
Web site for house: http://www.loopback.net

This desirable home in the historic Forest Hills neighborhood is within walking distance of downtown Durham, the American Tobacco Campus, and the Durham Bulls ballpark. It has 3 bedrooms and 2 full baths in 2250 square feet. It sits on a quarter acre lot with old growth trees on a quiet street directly on the grand Forest Hills city park. French doors opening onto the back patio, a large bay window looking over the front yard into the park, and a finished basement with fireplace and wine cellar add to the spaciousness of this home. Outdoor entertaining is easy with large decks front and back, outdoor speakers, and a luxury hot tub. The home has hardwood and tile floors throughout and an extremely useable kitchen with a breakfast area sunroom.

"When I was a kid," I just told Lily, "you couldn't pause TV."
"So you had to hold in the pee?"

The sixth episode of the podcast is up, a series of stretches using the wall or some other vertical prop. Lily had to take some of the pictures, and she did a fine job—the camera is very heavy, but as she pointed out, she ate a spinach salad the other night.

Off to the Latta Plantation Triathlon, with the goal of slogging through despite my lingering head cold and unusually high resting HR. Not a race, but a workout. I want the series points. This time, I think I'll carry my flat kit along; hopefully, that's not asking for a flat!

After a long day of preschool, it's nice to unwind with a little golf.

Yesterday Lily registered for kindergarten. She was so excited she said she couldn't wait for school to start. The registrar was very friendly, and she had a table set up for children to make a picture while the paperwork was being processed. I snapped this picture with my phone; Lily's art is over her left shoulder, a flower.

I never went to kindergarten. Fifteen years ago, I was horrified to discover I might have missed everything I really need to know.

I've just posted the next episode of the podcast. Where does the time go? It's been a month since episode 4.

This one is straightforward: sun salutations with lunges. A warm-up, a cool-down, a workout in itself. It's not very original (I could cue the sequence in my sleep!), but it is effective.

The pictures aren't the best. Our very sophisticated camera (a Bear hand-me-down) decided to rebel and focus on the background, and Wes and I are at its mercy, not knowing a thing about F-stops or whatever the issue is. But it was a sunny day and Vivi took a big nap, so I made hay while I could.

Feedback welcome, as ever.

To prep for the Daddy and Me yoga class I'm subbing tomorrow, and to get some pictures for June's issue of Endurance, highlighting youth fitness, we played with various partner yoga poses. Very fun.

Cape Town sounds (and looks, from the pictures) very cosmopolitan. Here's Wes at lunch before his marathon series of flights home.

My father, while very accomplished, is a stickler for humility, always insisting that pride goeth before a fall. This includes pride in personal accomplishments, and he is very careful to choose words other than "I'm proud of you." (That said, he is unfailingly supportive. He just doesn't like the word, in much the same way that he doesn't like pineapple upside-down cake.)

So despite my genetic predisposition against using the word pride, that's just what I saw on Vivi's face when she actually peed in the toilet in my presence. For months I promised treats, TV, a silly dance, anything, if she would just produce. Nothing.

When the moment came, my dance of joy was in reaction not to the sound of tinkle, but to the look on her face, the dimpled cheeks, the giddiness in her eyes. Pride!

Since I won't get a picture of the child on the pot—permanent psychological scarring—here's a very different, wistful expression, and a testament to my mother's photographic skills, which make my father feel impressed, pleased—ah, hell, proud.

I've just dropped off Wes at the airport—he's going to South Africa for ten days. Set him up with my iPod and Lily's digital camera, which meant I finally got around to downloading her pictures from her trip to England. Many were blurry shots taken from the car or the train. I could see that my mother took some of them; others had a great four-foot-tall perspective. While I don't know whether Bear or Lily took this shot of Banjo at Warwick Castle, it cracks me up.

Lily decided to buy her father some wine for his birthday. At the wine shop, I asked, "What kind of wine do you want to get?" She considered her answer, then, with the keen eye of a scientist, observed, "I notice you two drink a lot of red and white wine."

(As opposed to green and blue? Or is this an intervention?)

Then she turned around to find, right at five-year-old eye level, a bottle of Bandol rosé. "What color is that?"

"Pink. How about some pink champagne?"

Her immediate choice was Billecart-Salmon rosé, probably my favorite champagne ever, or second after the Cristal rosé. But we decided on a cheaper bottle of pink champagne, which was great. Good call, Putie.

Speaking of pigeons, it's almost Piazza San Marco under our bird feeder. I like the take of one of Lily's friends, who calls pigeons by their more picturesque name, "rock doves." They aren't so bad, apart from the bird shit on the play set. Our seed feeder is motorized, so when a heavy bird or a squirrel tries to eat from it, they get flung off. It's a gas to watch. At any rate, pigeons are ground feeders and don't offer much flipping entertainment.

My avian nemesis is the cowbird. When cowbirds appear in the spring, I try to systematically chase them off. After a week or two of consistent chasing, they get the hint and leave. Cowbirds are parasitic, dumping other birds' eggs from their nests and replacing them with their own. Last year I had a moral quandry about whether I should fault the birds for their evolutionarily crafty behavior, since it's hard-wired into their nature. But by now, I've developed my own instinctive habit, which involves rushing outside, waving a section of newspaper, and either barking or screaming, "Shoo!" The girls can give a good imitation of me doing this.

Last night, with daylight savings in effect, there was enough light to play outside after dinner. Lily and Vivi hatched a crafty plan to dissuade the cowbirds. As Lily described it, "We'll hide somewhere, and when they come down, we'll throw these soccer balls at them." Ambush!

It worked pretty well. The girls hid under their play set, and while her aim isn't good, Lily's enthusiastic bombardment did manage to chase off the cowbirds that had perched on the fence. Of course, this morning I was back to waving newspaper. Cowbird insurgency.

Had a pleasant transatlantic phone call this afternoon, on which Lily confirmed that the servant standing behind her in the photo is made of wax. She's adopted my father's terminology after spending the week with him: "When Banjo first saw him," she reported, "he thought he was making tinkle."

Wes gracefully completed his first triathlon yesterday, maintaining a sense of humor throughout. He had a very late start, 10:40 a.m., for the 500-yard swim, which he found disorienting but managed to complete without freaking out. After a strong ride he had little left for the hilly 5K course, but he was smiling whenever I found him and isn't hurting today, so it was a very positive experience!


And doesn't he look fine in his outfit? You can see in the running picture the kind of terrain we had to cover. This was taken near the top of a quarter-mile hill we had to climb twice. Phew!

With my cold entering week 4, it's been a while since I got a good night's sleep. First it was congestion, then a weird shoulder complaint, then the stress of Guava's demise. While visiting Banjo and Bear last weekend, I slept pretty well on their guest-room pillow, so yesterday I got one of my own.

Usually I'm drawn to the fanciest version of anything: give me two items to choose from, don't tell me the cost, and I'll always choose the pricer one. This works with everything from wine to clothes to UV-blocking window film. But last night, I slept straight through the night—no potty breaks, no twingy shoulders—on a $12.99 pillow from Steinmart.

We ran over our cat last night, and she died.

She was fourteen (or so). Lately she'd lost a step and was having problems jumping to chair level. I noticed her limping a little. And she had begun cutting her run into the garage as we pulled in closer and closer. We've been commenting about it over the past few weeks. Then last night, there she was, running in, as the whole family returned from a trip. We saw her. I said, "It's almost like she has a death wish." Wes pulled in very, very slowly. And she cut back in front of the car.

Don't worry, there's no graphic story to tell, no blood, not much drama. She ran and hid, but we lifted her out gently and got her into her carrier. We thought we'd clipped a foot or her tail, but when Wes got her to the emergency vet, only 20 minutes after the run-in, it turned out she was bleeding internally: the end.

We've spent all night wondering why she did it. She knew to stay away from cars. She regularly got out of the way as we slowly pulled in. Now we feel complicit in a kitty assisted suicide.

My brother, who works for the independent news program Democracy Now, has just become a New York Times photographer of sorts! He shared footage that he caught wearing his in-line skates at a Critical Mass rally. You can see the credit (John Hamilton) in the pictures, but if you click the "multimedia" button, you'll hear him working to keep up with the cyclists.

Since bottoms are hysterical in our house, I performed an elaborate bottom-shaking dance to banjo music to get these smiles.

My parents, whom we call Bear and Banjo, came for a visit this weekend, as I was miserable with a deeply entrenched head cold. They fed us a wonderful take-out dinner from Aurora and helped occupy the kids so I could rest.

We watched the Wake Forest-Charlotte basketball game. Watching sports with Bear is always a hoot; she gets very involved and issues statements like, "There goes the game!" She's usually right. Yesterday, though, her team won, despite her observation: "We always lose in the second half."

As opposed to the first half?

Another amazing profile by my mother. This child announced last night that she wanted to be Lillian instead of Lily. This morning, she seems to have forgotten.

Which of these cousins has the more offensive T-shirt? Depends on your politics and gender. Big, buff Cousin Jay is taking Team Beaver a little too far. Lily, in the bottom right corner, does not look amused.

It just struck me: Saddam Hussein is acting like a two-year-old.

How do you keep a child in bed who doesn't want to be there? Persuasion isn't effective; threats carry little weight (what does Saddam have to lose? He's said he's not afraid of execution); your last resort is force (the imprisonment of the crib railing, the shut door).

Rebellion in a two-year-old is a frightening preview of the impending teenager's realization that no, we can't truly stop you, or make you, or keep you in your bed if you don't want to be there.

We asked for it.

The pattern of discussion around here:
Vivian (age 2): "I like X. You like X?" [E.g., "I like Panthers. You like Panthers?"]
Lily (age 4): "I don't like X--I love it!"