Last weekend was one of releasing pent-up aggressions as Jamie fought chiseled black men. Where we strengthened this country’s homeland security by killing off The Enemy. And where we crashed and burned umpteen times on the race track. And lived to tell about it.
Y’see, Jamie knew the moment he limped in the door at 9 p.m. on Friday–after two consecutive weeks of late nights–that I was in need of a break. And not of the nervous breakdown variety for once. Within moments he was on the phone with his sister, arranging her babysitting services for Saturday night.
The next morning, we woke up to a blanket of snow. Strange as it may sound, running after it has snowed is my favorite running condition in the world. Jamie graciously watched the kids while I set out to explore a nearby trail.
Funny thing was that when I left, Jamie was arguing with Hadley about putting her pants back on. And when I returned, after running through a winter postcard of snow-laden trees that festooned my path, she was still pant-less. Even after three marathon time-outs. And knowing I wasn’t there for it was almost as good as my run. 
We eventually made our way outside to play in the snow and terrorize the neighbors with snowballs. Because we’re just those kind of people. It could be worse: we could burn swastikas on their lawn. Oh, wait. My brother was the one who did that….
That night, we hit Dave and Buster’s. Without children. I’m not much of an arcade person but always enjoy the occasional excursion, especially when I get front-row seats of Jamie competing.
I knew he’d had a bad week when the first thing he said was “I need to find something to shoot,” which was followed by a stint in a virtual boxing ring where he went head-to-head with some heavy weights.
I would have cheered for him but 1) I couldn’t stop laughing and 2) this flash of testosterone reminded me of our first Christmas together when my mom bought him a homeboy-esque Nike hat and he made me call him “G” for the rest of the holiday. Don’t ask me where “G” came from. When I tried to convince him he should be “J,” he grunted there was no reasoning with The Hood. My mistake.
Through his little boxing stint, he did prove that he’d hold his own in The Hood. Then again, jabbing and crossing in mid-air doesn’t exactly constitute a gang war. Especially when good ol’ “G” somehow woke up sore from it the next morning….
I'm a Canadian-born mom of two, former Denver Post columnist, family travel writer, editor of MileHighMamas.com and 9News contributor. Expert on all things Utah, Denver, family and travel. Lover of laughter and life. Happily married to a man obsessed with growing The Great Pumpkin. 