 Growing up, it was fairly common to see lots of people outside during an eclipse. As a student, there was usually the opportunity to get extra credit in everything from writing to math. Apparently, things have changed.
Since it will be nearly three years before the next total lunar eclipse, we decided to let the kids stay up and see it. While it was too cold to sit outside for the full event, I set things up so the we could be outside during the total eclipse. That worked out well, as I doubt either of the kids (or me, for that matter) would have the attention span to watch the entire show.
When I stepped outside to set up chairs and blankets, I was surprised to find myself alone. None of the kids from the neighborhood were out, and my children are the youngest of the bunch. Shock aside, I made sure my son was dressed warmly and grabbed the binoculars. Before we headed out the door, I asked him about the color of the moon. He very confidently stated it was white, the answer for which I hoped.
He had no idea why he had been allowed to stay up so late, much less why we were going outside "to play" so long after dark. As we left the garage, I had him look at the moon. His reaction was pretty cool, and he wanted to know why it was red.
We discussed the eclipse a little, and I let him try the binoculars. In the past, he has struggled with them, and this time he was able to find the moon. It was priceless watching him find it for the first time. His eyes were probably as big as the moon. Though he is too young to really understand, I hope our little adventure will stick with him as he gets older.
He stayed outside for a good 25 minutes, and kept switching between the naked eye and the binoculars. He asked a few good questions, and was excited when he went back inside to "tell mom about the moon." Our daughter was less excited, though she did eventually go outside for a few minutes.
And one neighbor girl did find her way outside to watch some of the eclipse. She was equally as excited to look at the moon through the binoculars. Part of me really wants to pick up an entry level telescope and stand so we can see other features more clearly. It's tough to see the rings of Saturn when looking through binoculars. Steady as I might be on aerobars, I can't keep binoculars that motionless.
While staying up late one night when he is four probably won't lead our son to become a great scientist, it gave one more little push to help him understand how interesting learning can be. And interest in learning is always a good thing.
 The military is a lot like Ironman. First, everyone has a story. Second, lots of people have a difficult time understanding why anyone would sign up. Third, both the participant (servicemember) and their family share a great sense of pride in the journey being taken. And both require a great amount of determination, discipline, and support to ensure success.
Unlike Ironman, military service is a vital part of this country's past, present and future. While triathlon is a big part of our lives, the country would continue on if we never held another race. Not so with our military tradition. Every freedom we have rests on the shoulders of the men and women who serve in uniform. That includes the freedom to write this blog, as well as the freedom to disagree with what is said in it.
Recent events in Berkeley, California raised the hackles of military families around the country. The city council, forgetting the very freedom to voice their dissent is defended by the military, voted to tell the US Marine recruiting station in their town that they are "unwelcome" in the city. Only when faced with the very real possibility of losing millions of dollars of state and federal funding did they revisit the issue and indicate they support the troops while opposing the war.
Service members and their families find that very difficult to swallow. When the first reaction is to tell a recruiting station they are unwelcome in town, it is difficult to see the support they claim to have for service members. Their opposition to the war in Iraq is fine. Their dislike for the policies of the President are also fine. Telling recruiters, who by the way happen to be service members, they are unwelcome in town is not.
As many readers know, I spent 10 years in the Navy. That, however, is only the beginning of the understanding myself and my family have of the idea of supporting the military. Like many other families out there, we are a military family. My dad served more than 20 years in the Navy, as did my father-in-law. My brother served eight years in the Navy, and my sister served five. My brother-in-law, shown in the picture at the start of this post, has over 20 years of service completed and plans to complete his career with at least 26 years. With nearly a century of Naval service in our immediate family, SUPPORT is a very important word.
You'll note that in the picture my brother-in-law is holding a big gun in a very sandy location. That's about what we know. Forward deployed, no more. We can guess at locations, but never really know. We do know it's dangerous and we pray for his safety. We also pray for the safety of those in his command.
Support or oppose the conflicts around the world, we 100% support the mission of our soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines. They are an all-volunteer force doing what millions have done before them. Defending our freedom. All of them. They ask for little in return, which is good, because that's what we, as a country, give them. We give them little pay. We give them little recognition. We give them little understanding. All too often, the only thing we give a lot of is flack.
That's wrong. The next time someone says the "support the troops," consider it in terms of a race. Imagine running a triathlon with the kind of "support" we give our troops. The only people you see on the course are people protesting your use of the roads. The few aid stations on the course have insufficient supplies, because the race director refuses to spend the money needed to stock them. And everyone at the finish line is there to complain about how you went about finishing the race.
How many of those would you want to run?
I don't know if the Pol family is chanelling the Commodore clan, or just an ordinary victim of the bug that is floating around, but it looks to be a very hacky Valentine's Day. And no, the spelling is fine.
Both kids have been struggling with an apparent sinus/chest cold for about a week, now. Monster Girl started spiking fevers, and had to be stripped down to her pull-up on Monday when he temperature hit 103.7F. B-Boy, who we felt was over the hump, seems to have taken a turn for the worse yesterday.
The youth organization with which I volunteer had a ski trip planned for the eighth graders, meaning I had to head straight from work to catch the bus. As I drove that way, Mrs. Pol called and let me know our son had just thrown up for the third time. I offered to stop by the house or even skip the ski trip. She told me to go as she had it under control (a decision she came to regret).
After a nice ski outing, not counting the directionally and automotively challenged driver, I got home about 11 p.m. I set my stuff down, only to be told by my wife that I probably didn't want it sitting exactly where I had put it. Or anywhere in the general vicinity of where I put it. Or anywhere in the entire living room, including either recliner. That, apparently, was the field of battle.
My son had a rough evening, unable to keep anything down, and my wife bore the brunt of it. That left me to deal with the aftermath, including steam cleaning the carpets. The day had started at 4:30 a.m. after a night on the floor of my daughter's room, as it should be remembered she is also sick. I ran a 15K training run before work, and spent the evening chasing 13 and 14 year olds all over the hill. Steam cleaning carpets until after midnight wasn't exactly the end I had planned for the day.
Or changing my son and his bed linens after he got sick, again. And just to put it in perspective, he was so wiped out from the day that he didn't even wake up when he got sick that final time. We only found out when I went to check on him. That's tired.
The wife and I have yet to succumb to whatever plague it is that has a hold of our kids. If everything follows the same course, it looks like we may be celebrating Valentine's Day a week or so late. Otherwise, we'll have a nice gift for all the couples we come in contact with that day.
We've been lucky that past few weeks, in a "snowing all the time" sort of way. Several days of modest snowfall have accumulated to allow a good deal of outdoor, wintry fun. For those of you without kids, that translates to sleds, piles of snow, and sled dogs named "Daddy." Throw in a neighbor kid or two, and you have a great opportunity for kids to work off some cabin fever.
Last night, I called ahead to let Mrs. Pol know I would take the kids out to play as soon as I got home. We had only been out a few minutes when a 5-year old neighbor boy came running out his front door, headed for our house. When he saw we were rebuilding our sled hill, he went and got one of his sleds. The only option we have is a full size wooden toboggan, ill suited for small hills in the front yard.
Soon enough, it was like a ride at Disney, with one child sledding while the other two stood in line for their next turn. And like all children, the most important aspect of any turn was the exact distance they managed to travel. Well, that coupled with finding new and dangerous was to sled down the hill.
My daughter surprised me with her willingness to try anything the boys did. If they went down laying on their back, she went down laying on hers. But the imitation ended when she discovered the joy of laying on her belly, head first, and sledding down the hill. It had to be comical for anyone watching me pick her up and set her into the sled. And the whole time I'm saying, "Okay, nobody tell her mom what she's doing."
She giggled and laughed every time she went down the hill. And she wasn't afraid to try getting an extra ride, either. Though she's only two and quite a bit smaller than both boys, she can yell just as loud as either. It's funny to watch her standing there with her fists clenched yelling, "MY TURN! NO, MY TURN!"
Fearless. There's something to be taken from that. It isn't a fearlessness of injury. Neither of my kids are overly fond of pain. But they aren't afraid to take risks. And Monster Girl continually proves that SHE'S the one we'll have to watch closely. The risk of injury just doesn't faze her when there's a possible reward of an adrenaline rush.
Just think, only 16 more years until she can move out of the house.
 Anyone with military experience and those who watched "Good Morning, Vietnam" starring Robin Williams understand the term "zero dark thirty." It simply refers to any time earlier than when a person would like to crawl out of bed. Many would refer to the normal wake-up time of triathletes in training that way. But for me, 0430 has become the standard time for reville to sound.
Even so, it is possible for someone to wake me up earlier than planned. Especially when the someone is under four feet tall and younger than five years of age. As we have two in our household that qualify, it is quite common that I get wake up calls before the alarm sounds. Let's call it zero DARKER thirty.
It has been an interesting few days in our house as we "closed" the nursery. Monster Girl has a new room, and B-Boy traded up from the toddler bed to a twin bed. So everyone is a bit out of whack. The main result of that is one tired daddy.
Our daughter is getting used to a new room, a new bed, and new rules. Since we now have a door between her and her brother, screaming at night is less of an issue. That gives us the flexibility to allow her to stay in her room and scream her lungs out. Of course, that DOES limit our ability to sleep, but such is life.
As a compromise, we (and by "we" I mean me, as our kids have some strange need for daddy to care for them in the middle of the night) have been dragged out of bed at all hours of the night. Generally, it's to discuss with our daughter the reasons why she should stay in her bed, or at least her room. The conversations usually go something like this:
Her - "Mommy-daddies room."
Me - "No, you have your own room, now, and we'll stay in here."
Her - "No, mommy-daddy room."
Me - "Let's lay down here, and I'll stay with you."
Her - "Potty."
Me - "Do you need to go potty, or do you just want to walk around?"
Her - "B's room." ("B" is what she calls her brother)
Me - "This is your room, now, why don't you lay down and we'll go to sleep."
Her - "Juice!"
Me - "You know you don't get food and drink at night."
Her, in a more insistent tone - "Mommy-daddies room."
Me - "We've been through that, so you'll just have to scream. Orrr, we can lay down and go back to sleep."
Her - "Radio on!"
Me - Now we're talking. Once she's gone through enough arguments to ask for music, it's almost over.
For some reason, these little exercises tend to start around 0330. After spending 15-20 minutes going through the scream, protest, beg, scream, negotiate, concede routine, it often becomes either difficult or pointless to try and go back to sleep.
That's okay, though. Because by then, we're usually past zero darker thirty. And zero dark thirty is late enough to get moving and go train.
 This picture of my daughter says a lot about the past several days. This was shortly after the kids opened gifts as part of a party with our extended family. While we open most of our gifts on Christmas day, the kids open gifts from aunts and uncles (mostly "grand" at this point) and cousins on Christmas Eve. Our son never slowed down, but our daughter fell asleep in my chair while playing with her new horse and snow globe.
We've had several days that were similar, with my wife and I falling asleep later, after long days of work. In addition to crossing several "honey-do" items of the list, we have entertained the in-laws, attended several Christmas parties, and hosted a few of our own. And here it is, nearly 8 a.m. on Christmas, and the house is divided down the middle, by age. The oldest three are sitting at the table eating (with one blogging), while the youngest three are fast asleep. That the two kids are still sleeping is a good indication of how truly tired they are.
True to the season, no sooner did I type the above paragraph then I heard the rattling of dishes in the living room. A two-year old girl had found her way out of bed and into Santa presents.
And that will end any attempt at a longer post.
Merry Christmas to everyone!
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 Almost as soon as I walked in the door after work, last night, I was informed by my son that he isn't allowed to have juice, anymore. This caught me off guard, as we usually allow our kids to have a bit of juice in the morning, and a bit with their snack in the evening. Then, he told me we have to stop giving him milk, too. That was when I decided that perhaps Mrs. Pol would be a better source of information.
The cause of all the commotion was a visit to the doctor. Our son just turned four, and had his annual checkup. The doctor said that based on his height and weight, our son was overweight, and we had to cut back on his diet. Now, this caught me off guard for a couple reasons. First, while our son is a big boy (he has consistently been at the top of the charts for height and weight), I wouldn't classify him as "overweight." In fact, I sometimes get concerned about his willingness to NOT eat when he doesn't like his options.
Though it is always difficult to tell from pictures, this is a photo we took for Commodore's son, Mo. There is a concern about weight in this picture, but it ISN'T our son. Our daughter is definitely on the shorter and rounder side, but she is only two. We will wait another year before getting overly concerned. Our son, not so much.
The challenge is that the only basis for the doctor's conclusion is the Centers for Disease Control Body Mass Index charts. I consider these a poor choice, at best. And when making life decisions, they should be given only slightly more weight than a grain of salt. Used in conjunction with common sense and various other factors, the BMI charts can provide some basic guidance.
 I'll use myself as an example of why I question the value of the BMI statistic. Consider this picture (or others from the header and profile) from IM Louisville. At the check-in, I weighed 163 pounds. By the end of the race, I was much closer to 160. These pictures give a reasonable picture of where I was physically.
Using my height of 5' 10" and a weight of 160 pounds, I fall in the high-normal range of body mass index. Only a few more pounds would classify me as "overweight." And the loss of another 20 pounds would put me squarely in the middle of the "normal" range. Anyone who sees me will likely confirm that such weight loss would be frightening. I DO have a few pounds I could stand to lose, all in my gut. I seriously doubt there is 20 pounds there, though.
When people are required to be gaunt, or "bone thin," to be "normal," there is a problem with the index.
I'll be the first to admit there is a weight problem within the United States. I'll also be quick to agree that children often suffer for the excess of their parents. That, however, is a judgment better made based on common sense, physical appearance, and bad trends. The use of the body mass index charts as the sole determining factor of being "overweight" is a poor substitute for good judgment.
While we face a growing population of heavy children, we have an equally disturbing tendency to push our kids toward an unhealthy obsession with weight loss. The same charts that indicate I am nearly overweight would classify a six foot tall woman at 137 pounds as normal. And society continues to accept those who fall far short of that weight as the "model" of how we should look.
Be wary of anyone who uses BMI as the sole factor in evaluating you or anyone else in your life.
Prior to the 80s, few kids had the kind of electronic "baby-sitters" that are prevalent, today. As I was growing up, television was very limited in our household. Every time a group of kids managed to watch more than a few shows, a parent was there to send them out the door. Regardless of where we went, we were encouraged (pronounced "forced") to get outside and do something. Bike rides, golfing, running around the park, chasing through the woods, and launching then chasing model rockets are just a few of the activities we did to burn calories.
Things are different, today. Few parents will send their 6-12 year old kids out into the world with little concern for where they go. The days of sending kids out to "play" without keeping a close eye on them and anyone around them are long gone. And parents are faced with the challenge of balancing the needs of their children with the needs of the rest of life.
In the Pol household, we limit television viewing to a few shows in the morning and one show in the evening. Morning shows are dedicated to educational viewing. At night, we juggle a wide variety of shows, depending on what the kids want at the time. Lately, that's been races.
My kids constantly amaze me by asking for one triathlon video or another. My son has taken to referring to Ironman races by color. IMAZ is "the orange Ironman." Coeur d'Alene is "the green Ironman." Next week, we get to watch "the red Ironman. The one daddy did." And when they decide to watch a race, it's pointless to try and show them a Disney movie or other show. Only a triathlon video will do.
It is equally as heartening to watch them while watching a race. They may as well be participating in the race. My son runs from the kitchen, through the living room to a hallway. Then back. Observers are required to cheer for him (the runner). My daughter likes to sit on my knees during the bike portions. She leans forward and grabs my index fingers as if they are her personal aerobars. It's absolutelty hilarious.
It is also something we praise and encourage. With the exception of our dining room (china and all), we rarely prevent our kids from running in the house. We just try to limit the potential for damage and injury. If they want to run, they run. And whenever possible, we take them outside so they can play on their bikes and REALLY run. Our chores often suffer because of it, but we'll have plenty of time to clean. They'll only be kids for so long, and we want them to develop a LOVE of running and biking. In the future, they won't care all that much that there were toys in the living room or books on their floor.
They WILL remember being able to run like the wind or bike all afternoon. And if they remember, perhaps they'll continue. And if they continue, perhaps they won't find themselves struggling to REGAIN fitness when they get older. Perhaps they'll never lose it.
 There are a couple people I've "met" through blogging that I look forward to meeting in person. Tri-Daddy many of you are familiar with, as he was the guest blogger who kept things so professionally updated during Ironman Kentucky. So many people have already met Iron Benny and Nytro that I almost feel obligated to buy a plane ticket just to go visit them. ALMOST. I could never keep up with Nytro at the bar. Or Benny on the bike.
Commodore is a man with whom I believe I have lots in common. Pun intended. I keep harassing him and Tri-Daddy with the concept of finding an event where the three of us can race and our families can hang out. And I keep stealing pictures from Comm's site, so I have to stay on his good side.
If you haven't stopped by Common Man Syndrome, today, take a swing by and lend some moral support and comment love. Commodore has been showing just how uncommon he is by posting about some of the challenges he's been facing, keeping things light as he does so. He has to be one of the few people who could put himself into the ER, and then go through the painstaking efforts to post about what is happening. He may blog about the common man. His refusal to be boxed in by his situation and his willingness to share his experiences make him anything but common.
The next time you lack motivation to train, think of those who are unable to get into the water, onto their bike, or out on the road for whatever reason. Sometimes, it's a temporary setback such as Comms is facing. Other times, it is more serious. Many overcome amazing challenges to compete in triathlon and other events. Perhaps the lack of sleep or that minor muscle ache isn't such a big deal, after all.
On October 9, 1994 my brother and I headed out for a night on the town. My job? Designated driver. His job? Well, that should be obvious based upon my job. He was the designated drunk guy. (Just so nobody gets the image that my brother is somehow a drunken slob, he was going through a rough time, and I suggested a night out. And he DID spend eight years in the Navy. You know, drunken sailor, and all.)
For the record, my brother did a REALLY good job that night. At one point, he asked me for $10 to get a pizza, which I considered a good idea, given his general condition. I was mildly amazed when the waitress delivered the pizza. In a pitcher. Which was needed because the pizza was liquid. And looked like beer.
I took immediate countermeasures to minimize the likelihood of my having to physically carry my brother out of the club. That involved giving away pitchers of beer as fast as my brother could order them. Most of the people gladly accepted the free beer.
All except one woman. She was drinking rum and coke. So, I offered to buy her another round. After all, it would be rude to give everyone else free booze and leave her hanging. The only issue is that she was driving and didn't need another drink.
Not to be deterred, I offered to get her a soda or something. She accepted that, and I ordered a coke. Except it was free, because I was the designated driver. And my brother was bankrolling their night buying beer by the keg.
No beer. No rum and coke. Free soda. It was an outrage. I HAD to BUY this woman something. So, I took the obvious step of asking her out to dinner. Well, if I had any money left after my brother was done ordering beer.
We went out for dinner a few days later. At some point, we took in a movie and started going out more often.
One year later, on October 10th, I asked her to marry me.
Two years after that, on October 11th, we got married.
That was 10 years ago. And while she hasn't been "Mrs. Pol" for all those years, she is the love of my life and the mother of our two wonderful kids. She has helped me through some fairly amazing journeys, including Ironman. And she has some pretty awesome accomplishments of her own.
It's sometimes hard to understand why things happen. That October 9th so many years back, my brother was faced with divorce and needed a night out. In the end, he went on and found the woman he was meant to be with. And his night of buying more beer than he could possibly need led to my finding my wife.
9, 10, 11. Important numbers in our life.
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