A Running Story in 13.1 Parts

Part 1: Well, I ran the Pittsburgh Half Marathon on May 6th and I lived to tell the tale!

Some of you have heard, or read, a little bit about my running journey and others have heard about it a lot. I'm an external processor, so I talk, and talk more, about what's on my mind and this damn race has been on my mind for months. I began my training before the new year and, at that time, I had it all mapped out. When I first started, three miles was my average run and 13 was miles, and months, away. I slowly and steadily increased my overall mileage and my long run by a mile per week. Before I knew it, 4 miles turned to 6, and then to 8, 9 and 10. My confidence increased and I had some moments where I could feel myself running the half. I could envision my accomplishment. I even considered signing up for a pace group. I set my goal to finish in two hours and 30 minutes.

Part 2: Then, on the day I wrote my training inner thoughts post, I injured my hip. This was after I had already been dealing with a bum ankle and a pulled muscle in my foot. For weeks, I had been able to ignore the other injuries, which were mostly a nuisance. The hip was different, however, and it burned and hurt no matter what. As normal, I turned to the web to self diagnose and decided that, while not a fracture, it was still serious. Serious enough that I knew I had no choice but to give it a rest. Just three weeks before the race and I was injured. I was devastated. Really, because I am very dramatic, so this was crushing to me. I thought about it when I got out of bed every morning and felt the pinch at first step. I thought about it after getting out of the car and feeling stiff. I thought about it at work, over dinner,and before bed. You get the picture.

Part 3: I was a good girl and I did not run for a week and a half. I was terrified and sick on the morning I got on the treadmill to test my body. I did a slow and easy run. It didn't feel great but it wasn't terrible. I knew that, in order to take part in the half, I'd have to take it easy. I spiraled into a sorry state of depression for the next week or so. I felt like all of my hard work was for nothing. I contemplated telling my cousin that I couldn't do it; that I was going to change my registration to the 5k. I worried that my injury wouldn't let me even do that successfully. My mantra was "depressed, defeated, deflated." The icing on the cake was, the Sunday morning one week out from race day, when I walk/jogged alongside the girls during a bike ride in town and my left knee started screaming at me. I laughed at the pain, you know, like a person in a white straight jacket in a padded room.

"This is f'ing crazy!" I thought to myself, "I'm afraid to move. I'm afraid I'll injury myself while sleeping!" I was pissed, too, about the amount of time I had lost to this race and how, now, I wouldn't even get to enjoy the glory of my hard work. This neagtive attitude made me one angry lady. My apologies to anyone who crossed paths with me during those last few weeks, in particular Andy, who most directy felt my wrath.

Part 4: As the person-in-the-family-who-organizes-us, I had the added pressure of planning out the trip logistics, (oh, did I mention Andy and the kids made the drive to Pittsburgh with me?), pack us, get directions, get gas, and ensure I had 8+ hours of car-ride entertainment and ample snacks on hand? It was a long ride and Andy I filled the time with fighting. The closer we got to Pittsburgh, the more my nerves go the best of me, and the angrier I became at Andy,and he at me. There was a point, outside of the Erie toll booth, where there was some slapping and threats to get out of the car.

Part 5: The hours leading up to the race are a blur. The kids had a good time with their cousins, and we enjoyed the company of family and touring the area around Pittsburgh. I had sadly accepted my fate and decided that my new goal was to finish the half standing. My cousin, Megan, and I joked about being picked up by the sweep truck, which is the threat to those who don't finish the race in three and a half hours. It became a bit of a joke for me and, my coping mechanism. Then, Megan encouraged me to read an article in the race publication we had picked up at the Expo. In the article, the author, a seasoned runner, shared some helpful hints. All his points, from nutrition to walking at intervals, were great but it was his very last point that resonated with me the most. He wrote, "Enjoy the experience....Unless you figure on being one of the first ones to cross the finish line, the marathon is a happening, not a race." Thank you, Rich Emert, for writing that. It's exactly what I needed at that moment. I went to bed at peace, knowing no matter what was ahead of me the next day, it was mine to experience.

Part 6: We woke up around 4:30 the next morning. Andy and the kids snored happily while Megan, her husband, John, (driving us into the city) and I quietly got ready. Megan and I shoved food and drink in our mouths, packed our running bags with water, Gatorade, and food (yes, Skittles for me). We nervously laughed about the number of trips we'd already made to the bathroom. As the sun rose, we watched runners gather from the comfort of John's office. We also laughed about the poor souls who had to wait in line to use the Porta Potties while we made several fabulous trips to the bathroom ourselves. We watched the people at street level, mostly in silence, and I did my best to eat a bit more and drink as much as I could get down. It felt like an eternity, but it was finally time to line up.

Part 7: Megan and I made our way through the crowd to Corral E, the last group in the race lineup, reserved for the runners with the slowest pace. We inched our way to the front of the group, after all, who wants to be at the very end? I anxiously looked at all of the people gathered around us. Some, like us, looked pensive, serious, and introspective. Others were laughing, stretching, and generally looked like they were enjoying themselves. Fools, I thought. The 7:30 start time came and went and I wondered why the race hadn't started. I needed this to start so it could end. About 6 or 7 minutes later I realized the race had started but we were so far back, we had to wait for the tens of thousands of other runners to cross the start line before we could move forward. Finally, Corral E started to move. We started slow and then the crowd picked up its pace to a speed walk. Seventeen minutes after the official gun, we crossed the start line. And we're off!

Part 8: Megan, who runs a faster pace than me, wished me well and good bye, and she was quickly lost in a sea of runners. "Well, here I go." I said to myself. I turned up my ipod and let my feet do the work. The first mile cruised by. The course was flat and I spent my time adjusting to running with the crowd. I found another mom and paced myself with her. Lots of people passed me. A speed walker passed me. I passed a few people. I was so busy looking at all of the different people running, all shapes and sizes, some with funny costumes, some with shirts that said who they were running for, all with fanny packs and water bottles (I bought myself a killer fanny pack at the Expo. It was a-mazing.) The morning was perfect, not too warm or too cold, not a cloud in the sky. My feet carried me forward, slow and steady.

Part 9: The next few miles were a breeze. I was in a groove and felt great. I'd almost forgotten about my injuries. I promised myself I'd run 7 miles and then walk. That's all I needed to do. By this time, I started to have fun. People were all around me. It was wall-to-wall runners. Every time we went under an underpass, all of the runners whooped and cheered. There were race signs everywhere, reminding us to hydrate and pace. Crowds lined the streets with signs, snacks and smiles. There were bands at almost every mile. I didn't hear a word of what they sang or played because my ipod blared in my ears but still I clapped for every single band. I was so happy they were a part of this.

Part 10: I looked up and saw the big, yellow, 5 mile marker and I thought I was going to cry. Normally, at five miles I'd start to feel a bit fatigued, or bored, but I was still going strong. I knew I'd make it to my 7 mile goal. Not too long after, as I approcahed one of the many bridges, I looked over and saw Megan. She was starting to have cramps and had slowed her pace. I tapped her over the shoulder and continued on. A few steps later I decided to take a walk break and have my first Skittles. Megan caught up with me and she told me she was hurting a bit. Wanting, and hoping, we could really do this together, I walked and jogged with her for a mile and half or so (maybe a little less or more, I can't quite recall). My body wanted to keep moving and at some point I moved ahead, trying to look back for Megan but knowing that she was not far behind.

As the sun started to climb over the buildings, the road heated up fast but my feet kept me moving. So did my music. All of my old buddies- Fun, Justin Timberlake, Katy Perry, Adele- they were all there to cheer me on. They were the soundtrack to what felt to me now like a wild party. I was high on adrenaline for sure. I slugged down as much Gatorade as possible, ate my Skittles, and pushed ahead. I'd move over to the side whenever there were crowds holding out their hands for high fives. I clapped when I saw funny signs like, You've Been Running Longer Than Kim Kardashian Was Married. I continued to find people to pace with like the super hot guy who was clearly helping a first time runner, the two old guys, or the woman with the words Cancer Survivor on the back of her shirt. Every time I passed another mile flag I wanted to shout: I JUST RAN 8 MILES! HEY- DID YOU KNOW THAT I JUST RAN 9 MILES!? I AM AWESOME! DUDE! I JUST RAN 10 MILES!!

Part 11: It was here, at mile 10ish that I hit a road block. There was no shade and I felt hotter than hell. I worried that my body was starting to get angry at me. I knew that if I had to walk, I'd be able to do it. But instead, I kept running. I let my legs move me forward, no matter how slowly. I could tell others were tired, too. Many around me were walking. Everyone was downing water or Gatorade. The tone felt more serious. Then three things happened for me that turned it all around again. First, somehere within the next mile or two, we hit a nice downhill, then I finally breaked for a Porta potty stop, God that felt good, and lastly, we broke off from the marathon runners whom we had all started with. As the course branched off and the halfers moved to the left and the marahoners to the right, those of us on the left gave a standing, mobile, ovation to our fellow runners. We clapped, we cheered and shouted, "Good luck! You're awesome!"

Part 12: As we climed the final big hill, I felt giddy, like straight-jacket, padded room silly. I felt like crying because this is what happens when I see people accomplishing their goals. I was overcome with emotion and pride. I hadn't thought about the kids, or Andy, or work, or anything else for that matter. For the last two or so hours, it was me, the crowd, and this moment.

Part 13: When I saw the 12 mile flag I gave out a huge whoop. I clapped and then, amazingly, I sped up. Now mind you, I sped up from an 11 minute mile to about a 10:45 but to me I felt like lightening. I weaved between people, picking up my pace as I went (10:40 I'm flying!) Then, the moment came, I saw the speed walker. I tapped the arm of the woman next to me, smiled and said, "I'm going to pass that I guy." I chugged by him happily. As I neared the finish line, the marathon course paralled ours again. Several runners on their side ran by us. We screamed for them as they blew by the halfers. At long last, I crossed the finish line. I looked at the clock, trying to estimate my time, which I later leared was 2:23. Not only did I cross the line running, I beat my goal time. A woman gave me a nice medal and said, "Congratulations! Move along!"

I stumbled around at the finish line for a little while, drinking water and eating a cookie and banana. The woman who has passed me on the marathon side walked by me. She looked like she'd just gone for a little jog. Soon, I caught up with Megan and we hugged. I'm forever grateful that she convinced me to do this with her.

The next 24 hours were surreal. Our long drive home gave me lots of time to soak up my accomplishment. There was no slapping or arguing for the entire 10 hour drive. I had no idea how much stress and anxiety had been building up in me and I'd finally let it all go. I allowed myself to accept that I could do this. I did it.

Part .1: There are 4 events in my life that I am most proud: birthing my two children, running the Boilermaker, and the Pittsburgh Half. I think it's obvious what they all have in common. Each event challenged me mentally, physically and spiritually. Each event scared the hell out of me, filled me with doubt and then with confidence. Each event was a rite of passage, an acceptance into a group of all those who have done it before me and who will do it after me. Of course, the best part about the races is that, at the end, I could take a long, hot shower and get a good night's sleep. We all know after having a baby neither of those happens, at least not right away! For any mom who is contemplating doing something they are afraid they can't do, do it. For those who are wondering if they can run a long distance race, you can. Strap on your shoes and get going. And, if you have birthed a baby, strap a boulder on your back as well. In comparison, this will be a piece of cake!

It Takes a Village

They say it takes a village to raise a child. Well, I'm certain that it is taking a village to raise me. On the eve of Mother's Day, I'd like to reflect on the many people who have mothered (or parented)me over the last 3 decades. Many blogs, including my most recent, sing the praises of my Moe, my numero uno. Second in command is, of course, Andy, who took the baton from my mom 10 years ago. Then, there are all the oher people over the course of time, from my grandmother, my many aunts, uncles, and cousins, my childhood friends' parents, my old boss (he always said he was a big brother but we called him Dad anyway), my college friends, in particular Smitty, who has watched out for me for a long time, and all of my current mom friends who support me daily.

There are a few friends in particular, who ironically don't have kids of their own yet, who have done the most extensive parenting of me: Sara D and Teresa. Teresa, my oldest friend in Cooperstown, has fed me, cheered me up and on, given me honest advice, helped me cook a decent meal, cleaned my house, cared for my children,and stood by side while I birthed one of them. When I am with Teresa, I get that same feeling as when I'm with my mom or Andy; she just makes me feel at ease and at home.

Then there's Sara D. My kids think she is a family member. They ask if she has the same last name as we do. When we get home at the end of the day, they look around for her and call out her name if they don't see her. She's a little bit sister to me, a little bit spouse (she is around so much when Andy travels that Caroline assumes she is his substitute), and a little bit mom. From helping me make dinner, bathing the kids, or changing the smoke alarm, when in need, I call Sara D.

The last two people I'd like to mention are Andy's parents, Deborah and Karl. Sadly for them, they didn't plan on getting another kid when Andy chose me as his partner, but there I was. I was rough around the edges, with a loud mouth and an attitude, but they accepted me anyway. How can I not love Andy's parents? He is a perfect combination of the two of them. Like his mom, Andy is strong willed, passionate, loyal, and anal retentive. (I mean that in the most loving way!) He's a good businessman, has a soft interior under his hard exterior, and a kind, loving manner with our girls, as does his dad. He is smart, helpful, caring and hard working- just like both of them.

I have come to rely on Deborah and Karl for advice of all kinds, from caring for the kids, navigating marriage, inter-personal relationships, and career and financial guidance. Last year, they were able to spend a lot of time visiting us and have not been able to do this this year. Their presence is greatly missed. On a bad day with Andy, the kind of day when I imagine throwing his clothes, chachkis, and his ass, out of the house, I think, "Ah, but I'd miss his parents too much!" I thank them deeply for taking me in, and considering me part of their family.

So, happy Mother's Day to all of you- thank YOU friends and family of past, present and future, for taking care of me and for putting up with me! I love you all dearly.

Somebody Who Matters

At first glance, one may not think that my mom and I are alike. Moe is shy and reserved. She's calm and thoughtful. She's a good listener and keeps things to herself. She's grounded and sensible. She's practical. You may be laughing now if you know me. I'm loud and outspoken. I'm dramatic and irrational. I talk too much and share too much. My head is often in the clouds and I lack common sense. I 'm a dreamer. How did this kid come from that mom? Well, if you know me, you also know that my mom has had the greatest impact on me and that we are actually very much alike. For example, Moe isn't really shy or reserved. She's just waiting for the right time to tell you what she thinks and you're going to hear it whether or not you like it. She uses the F-bomb freely, and sometimes inappropriately. In her own right, she is a feminist. She's a loyal friend. She's the family organizer. She has a quirky sense of humor and knows not to take herself too seriously. We can talk about anything together, no matter how serious or silly. I've always had a deep, great love for my mom even through my bratty teen years. Although I think some of my decisions were made to demonstrate that I could do things she never did. I was determined to go to college, to travel internationally, and to never get stuck at home taking care of a kid and husband. In my naivete, I thought, in order to be successful, I had to be more than just a mom. Years later, after college, and travel, and all those other things I had to do to show I was somebody who mattered, I finally became somebody who mattered. And three and a half years after that, my importance was reinforced. Since the moment I knew I was pregnant, my respect, and love, for my mom has ever increased. I'll be lucky if I'm half the parent she is. I hope my current decisions demonstrate that I understand I have been given the greatest gifts, two beautiful little girls and a beautiful and amazing mother. I talk to my mom at least a few times a week. We shoot the breeze, talk about TV, give one another work updates, or laugh about things the kids say. But mostly, I talk at her. Just like when I was a child, I look to my mom to help me at the end of a rough day, to be an ear to listen to my gripes and complaints and to remind me that it's all going to be ok. This past Saturday night, I got a late text message from her wishing me and my cousin good luck before the next day's half marathon. I wrote to her. "Thanks! I'm really scared." Her response back was quick and to the point, "You'll be fine." Tonight, I called her to debrief a stressful day. She listened, as always, and offered her words of wisdom. I felt better just talking to her. I wish I could see her more but I'm thankful that she's only a phone call away. After we hung up, I put the kids to bed, then, feeling like a weight had been lifted, I relaxed in the bathtub. While sitting there, reading a magazine, I thought about what my mom had said and worried that as usaul, I'd babbled on and hoped my mom shared everything she'd wanted to. I thought about calling her back when I heard the phone ring and the answering machine picked up. It was mom,and aparently, she did have more to say. "It's just me. I wanted to let you know that I heard on the news that the state of New York has declared child pornography not, NOT illegal. Disgusting." Happy Mother's Day to all moms but especially my very own.

I'm soooo Holyoke

It was a hot sunny day last Friday, and on my way home from work, all the college girls were out and about. As soon as the temperature hits 50, the kids around here start pulling out their flip flops and shorts, and for the girls this means the short shorts. As I sat at a stop light, I watched two girls cross the street, sporting espadrilles and t-shirts for dresses. I thought to myself, "You just wait 15 years and you will not be able to wear outfits like that!" Then I realized that 15 years ago, I didn't wear clothes like that at all. Ever. I never looked like your typical college girl. I never had long, pretty, shiny hair. Thanks to my boy hair cut, I didn't own a brush for all four years of college. I never wore makeup. I preferred Teva sandals over stilettos. Neither my looks nor my personality fit the norm, so instead of trying to fit in, I did what came naturally to me. The final product-me-wasn't a social outcast by any means, just a funkier, quirkier version of "normal". Don't get me wrong. It's not that I didn't want to be seen as pretty or attractive, but just not in the traditional way. As a teen, I struggled to balance finding my "unique identity", my personal need to succeed academically, and the desire to be popular and pretty. I think most of us go through a similar experience during our teens as we figure out who we are by comparing ourselves to others. Obviously, I survived those difficult, identity-defining years and came out, well, an older version of my teen self. In most circles, I believe I can pass as your normal, average person. I'm not any better or more talented than many folks out there and I'm pretty likable (right?) and can hold a conversation with just about anyone. I'm of average size, height, and intelligence. To describe me, would be to describe a thousand other women. Now, I said before that I felt I never looked like a typical college girl. I lied. I did. When I was younger, I looked like your typical all women's college girl. The day my parents dropped me off at college, I happily blended in like a leaf on a tree. At my college, nobody wore makeup, nobody wore heels and nobody ever even noticed that I didn't brush my hair. I know the jokes that are out there about all women's colleges. I know the myth about Scooby Doo and the five colleges in the Pioneer Valley- that my college is Velma. Well, sure, we are! I wear dark glasses and, my hair, when not cut pixie-style, is often in a bob with bangs. But it's not just her looks that links me to the cartoon character. Velma is outspoken, smart and quirky, which sounds a lot like me and my college classmates. I thank my parents for giving me the opportunity to spend four years expanding my knowledge about the world and learning to become an educated global citizen . I thank my college and all the people involved in its community, for allowing us to push beyond our comfort zone while still maintaining our quirky identities. Some of you may be annoyed by this post. How can I assume that every woman who went to an all-women's college is the same? How can I compare us, and limit us, to a cartoon character? Listen, what I'm really trying to say about this is that one of the things I liked most about my college is that I could be whoever I wanted to be. We weren't all exactly the same and our differences weren't limited to our clothes and appearance. What we did all have in common was the opportunity to be ourselves and to have the time to figure out what that really meant. I could stop trying to be someone else and just be me, take it or leave it. Since I work at a college, I reflect upon my own college days quite a bit. On campus, we often focus on retention and speak with perspective students and families about finding a college that is the right fit. I know, without a doubt, that my college was the right fit for me. It was before I ever even knew it existed, and it continues to be a part of me to this day. I like to think I was outspoken, grounded and strong before I attended college, was even more so upon graduation, and have continued to be 12 years later. The other day, my colleague was teasing me about some of my outfit choices. She told me, Oh, Melissa, some of your outfits are soooo Holyoke!" I challenged her to provide me with an example. "Ok, easy," she says, "striped socks and green clogs." I laughed. She was right. I just can't, from head to toe, fit the mold. Maybe I can wear the Ann Taylor suit now comfortably. Maybe I don't need to have purple hair to show that I'm funky. Yet, I like that so many women come up to me and say, "I love your hair. I wish I was daring enough to cut mine all off, too." I take pride that I'm the only one in my office who wears silly socks and ugly shoes. I take pride in being comfortable with myself, even if my choices aren't the same as the choices of others. College re-affirmed for me that I can do and say things that aren't popular and it's not really about wearing funky socks, it's about being able to back up who I am, what I do, and what I believe in. You may think that my colleague was being rude, but she wasn't. Her teasing me about my funky clothes was her way of saying that she gets me. It's not really about my short hair and striped socks. It's about those other qualities; that I'm resilient and energetic, outspoken, grounded and driven. Like my funky clothes, I hope my attitude and demeanor reflect who I really am. And I guess when it comes to college, you can take me out of Holyoke but you'll never take the Holyoke out of me.

Running: My Inner Thoughts

So, the big race is a month away. I've been training since before Christmas and boy am I ready- for it to be over. While my fab cuz will be running the race with me, she lives a few states away, so we have been training solo and reporting out weekly about what we call, "The emotional and physical roller coaster that is preparing to run 13.1 miles." Honestly, I don't know how real athletes do it. Training for a long-distance race isn't just about putting on your sneakers, going for a run and then going on with your day. You have to think about how much you sleep, what you put in your body and how you take care of your body at all times. For a mom who is already struggling to manage a job, a home, and a family, it seems that this 1/2 marathon is taking up a great deal of my already tapped mental and physical strength.

I have been getting up at 5:30 two to three days a week to run 3-4 miles on the treadmill. Since I'm an early riser, this part hasn't been that bad. Plus, I watch Mad Men streaming on Netflix via the ipad which passes the time and provides wonderful entertainment. (Who doesn't love/hate Don Draper?) On the weekends, I try to run 4-5 miles, both days, outside, a few other days are reserved for rest and one day is always my "long run" day, when I increase my distance by 1 mile each week. I'm up to 10 miles, and at my pace, that means I'm running for a very long time. Alone. Just me and my wilting body and spirit.

I mentioned that I don't have a running buddy, besides Don Draper and company, and the long runs are completed outside. I do listen to my ipod to block out my heavy breathing, and it helps to pass the time. However,I am an extrovert, who always likes to be chatting, and whose mind is always on the go, so I thought I'd give you an inside look at what goes through my mind during a typical long run. Here goes:

Start to Mile 1: Ok, so this is going to be a long run. Long run, long run, long run. This fanny pack is driving me crazy. It keeps thumping my butt. Thump, thump, thump, soooo annnnnooooying. I look like a fool with this fanny pack on. Where should I leave my water bottle. Ok, take a big drink and toss it behind this bush. I hope nobody thinks I'm littering. Could I get arrested for this?
Mile 1-2: I'm so tight and sore. I can't do this. I hate this. I'm tired. I'm tired. This is hilly. Why is it so damn hilly here? Is there a road that is totally flat anywhere in upstate?
Mile 2-3: Ahh, getting warmed up much better. Nothing hurts yet. Good. I am a rock. I am an island. I am a champion. Oh, crap, I forgot to send a student an email about that internship. I have to remember to do that tomorrow. "My hearts a stereo! Beats for you so listen close!"
Mile 3-4: Look at that house. It's huge. Look at that pool. I wonder if one of Caroline's classmates lives there? I wonder if they would invite us over this summer to swim? I wish we had a pool but the lake is really nice. Now, look at that house. That is sad. Does someone live there? Look at all the trash on their lawn. I wish I could come here at night and haul away all of their trash.
Mile 4-5: "The band Fun is the best band. The best. Janelle Monee is so pretty. Could I ever get my hair like hers? I need to get a sweat band for the race. What if I sweat in my eyes? Where is the end of this road? It's up here somewhere. God, this road is really long and hilly. Hilly, hilly, hilly. It's getting warm out. Whew. Getting hot now. Yep. Hot, hot, hot. Is the end of the road around this curve? No, what the hell?
Mile 5-6: Ankle, are you starting to hurt? Go to hell. I am going to ignore you. No ankle pain, not me. Why did I have to get drunk and twist it the other night? No more alcohol. No more. Bad. Where is the end of this damn road? Slow down cars! Slow down, yes, I did just point at you and motion for you to slow down. What if they turn around and try to abduct me? Where would I run to? I bet I can't run fast enough to get away.
Mile 6-7: I hate you ankle. You suck. I could be doing so many other things if I wasn't doing this race. I could sew a dress. I could clean my house. I could make a replica Eiffel Tower with Popsicle sticks. This turtle neck is suffocating me. It's strangling me. It's going to kill me. I am going to die. I am going to die out here, all alone. That person is waving to me but I can't lift up my arm to wave because if I do I may stop running and just sit down. Ah, my water bottle! It's still here! Ok, I am leaving it here- does anyone see me? I hope I don't get arrested.
Mile 7-8: Ah, it feels much better with that sweater off. I'm so glad I have this fanny pack so that I can eat a few jelly beans. Yum, yum, jelly beans. I hate you ankle. I divorce you. I don't need an ankle to run. I am never going to be able to run 13 miles. Ahhhh, I am getting tired. I need some LMFAO to get my pumped up. Oh yeah party rock is in the house TONIGHT! Look at those deer. They aren't even afraid of me at all. Maybe I should run away with them into the forest. Ok, now they are running and they have four legs and they run much faster than me. I'll never keep up. Oh well. I am going to die out here.
Mile 8-8.5: I am going strong. I can do this. I can do this. Oh, wait, did a slug and a caterpillar just pass me? Sorry, car, I can't move over into the dirt, I am too tired. Oh, man, lady, nice sweater. When I am old I am not going to wear an embroidered sweater with a built-in collar.
Mile 8.5-8.8: My legs are numb. I can't feel my legs. I have no legs. I have no legs! What the F&*(^ Mother F^&*(& Go to H%^&( I hate running! AHHHHH! I am glad I wore running tights in case I poop down my leg. Am I going to puke or was that just a jelly bean burp? Grit my teeth. Grit my teeth. I'm sorry, ankle, I promise to ice you and rub you lots tonight.
Mile 8.8-9: Yeah! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done!! I'm awesome. Oh, wow! Ok, that wasn't that bad. Was it?

And there you have it! A full hour and a half of stream of conscience while exercising! Almost as entertaining as Mad Men and I get to dodge cars full of people who are texting and driving. I finished today's run by forgetting to hide from Charlotte, who was in the gym daycare room, on my way to cool down. Therefore, mile 9-10 involved changing a poopy diaper, repeatedly picking up a dropped sippy cup and wrestling Char away from a large, stuffed dog sitting outside of the Main Street toy store.

Four more weeks to go! Wish me luck!

Our Three Kids

Andy and I have three children; Caroline, Charlotte and each other. Most mornings, I wake up, run, and shower, and then I rouse the lazy daisies. I'll spend the next hour, sometimes gently, and more often angrily, demanding that the rest of my family get ready for the day. I scurry between rooms, reminding each of my family members about their next task: "Caroline, put on your shirt. Charlotte, brush your teeth. Andy, get off of the computer and go take a shower. Caroline, NOW! Charlotte, NOW! Andy, NOW!" The pattern is almost exactly the same each day. I can count on all three of them to be incapable of getting themselves ready without my cajoling.

Yes, you're right. You're thinking that my expectations are a little high for a 5 and 1 year old. Perhaps this is true. Perhaps I'm asking too much for my kids to independently dress and prepare themselves for school. What about my big kid? Am I asking too much of Andy, the only other adult in the house, who mind you, should be equally responsible as me for getting our kids ready each morning? I'll admit that I'm exhausted by the time I get in the car for work each day; tired of physically running around and sweating about Caroline missing the bus or my late arrival to the office; tired from nagging and nagging my family to do the same thing I asked them to do the day before and the day before that. I suppose kids learn from repetition but what about adults? Is Andy too old of a dog to learn new tricks and develop better time management skills?

From inappropriate wardrobe selection, eating candy for breakfast to not being able to pick up their clothes because they are engrossed in a TV show, I can't distinguish the bad habits of my kids from those of my spouse.

I have no choice but to lump Andy in with the kids. Lord knows how he'd survive without me. He'd go to work 3 hours late every day, completely disheveled, and leave our children waiting for him after school each day because he has forgotten to pick them up. It's my job to make sure that he gets out the door on time, wears something respectable (well, I try) and that he makes sure our daughters get to and from where they need to be without us receiving too many phone calls from panicked teachers.

Remember, at the beginning of this post I mentioned that we each have three children. In many ways, I am Andy's third daughter. My own dad didn't play a particularly strong role in my upbringing and I feel in adulthood that I'm often the parent and he is still the child. Anybody who has studied psychology knows that people may look to their lovers as parents. No, I don't have an Electra complex but yes, I do think that in many ways what attracted me to Andy was his fatherly qualities. I'll never forget the night that I confessed to him that I wanted to "push the baby carriage" with him. I didn't articulate, at that time, whether the stroller had a baby in it or if he was to push me.

Andy is my rock. Like when I'm with my mom, when I am near Andy I feel comforted and at peace. Just hearing his voice relaxes me. (That's funny- I'm sure my nagging, whiny voice doesn't have the same effect on him.) When I'm having a bad day, he makes it better. He helps me solve work problems, he intervenes when Caroline and I are at odds, he protects me from anyone who wants to harm me. He makes sure I'm warm in the winter and cool in the summer. He feeds me. (He is such a good cook!)He'd rather I fall asleep on the couch at night than go to bed in our room so that I'm nearby. I'm serious, he told me that once!

Andy is my rock. I look up to him and admire him. I'm also very proud of him, even when he is plunging the toilet for me because this seems to be one of those things I just can't figure out! I'll continue to put up with him if he'll do the same for me because everybody needs a little parenting now and then.

The Small Stuff

From time-to-time, a friend or relative without a child will ask me why I wanted to have kids. The comment usually comes when one, or both, of my girls are throwing a tempter tantrum or are climbing on me like a jungle gym and I am near tears and insanity. It is often hard, particularly at those moments, to clearly articulate exactly why it is that having kids is so truly rewarding. In the end, unconditional love would probably sum it up, however there are a million reasons why I love being a parent. From seeing someone who looks or acts like you, getting tons of hugs and kisses to knowing that you have the ability to mentor someone to become a change-maker, the rewards outweigh the challenges.

With small children, one of the biggest perks I've been given is that I no longer take things for granted. I can honestly say that I don't even remember what it was like to not have kids. I mean, I remember being in high school and college and I look back on the crazy times of my youth with fondness, but the short time of adulthood I experienced without children is an absolute fog.

Having kids has provided me with perspective. When I was in my early twenties I had lofty goals and often became depressed when I'd hit a bump in the road. I was a perfectionist and I worried about everything. Why wasn't I skinnier, prettier or smarter? Why didn't I make more money or get a promotion fast enough? When was I going to be able to afford Pottery Barn furniture? Why did it always seem like I had to work every Saturday or Sunday? When was I going to get to take a big vacation? The list of gripes went on and on. As I forged a path for myself and tried to figure out who I was, I always wanted more than what I had at the present moment. It was all about the big picture because I didn't even know that the small stuff existed.

Now that I have kids, all that small stuff really matters. Yeah, small stuff, like going to the bathroom by myself. I don't even remember what it's like to sit on the toilet and not have a little person standing next to me, hand on my knee, asking me, "What you doing?" How about driving home from work without a kid with me? Oh, yeeaaaah, maybe I can stop at the post office on the way to buy a book of stamps, or the convenience store to get a gallon of milk! That would be soooo luxurious to just get out of the car, by myself, go buy what I need and then...wait for it....just get back in the car and drive away! No buckling and unbuckling, running up and down steps, losing my keys while chasing a small person through the parking lot, or buying more than was needed as a bribe to get the little person to stop asking why the man in front of us in line doesn't have a leg.

There are so many more: sitting down to eat dinner and NOT GETTING UP UNTIL I AM DONE EATING! YEAH! Sitting down and reading the paper. READING ANYTHING FROM START TO FINISH. Going swimming- yes, swimming, not standing in the water, up to my knees, scanning the water and beach like a lifeguard. Talking on the phone and just talking to the person on the phone, and not having a side conversation at the same time, "Oh, really? That's so exciting that you are going on vacation to....no! I said stop slapping her in the face! I'm counting to 5! 1, 2, 3....to Florida! That will be really fun!" In general, it would be pretty amazing to have a conversation where I listen and respond to just one person at one time.

So, you can see, when these things do happen, it makes me so happy! I'm very easy to please. Just give me five minutes to poop in peace and I'll do whatever you want me to do! A Life is Perfect day for me could look like this: wake up at 4, 5, and finally, 6 am, because baby has a stuffy nose. Manage 3 temper tantrums and 5 mini-crises, including a stuffed bunny in the (been used) potty before 11 am followed by an hour "swimming" in the gym pool and an hour accompanying my kids as they push a toy shopping cart, while sporting tutus and feather boas, down Main Street. Then, two loads of laundry and countless toy clean-ups followed by making a meal to watch it be thrown on the ground to chants for "Peanut Butter and Jelly! Peanut Butter and Jelly!" Ending with...drum roll... a walk with a friend followed by a drink at a bar by the lake and arrival home just in time to kiss the girls good night as they drift to sleep so I can then go take a bath and read a book and be in bed by 9. AHHHHHH.

In my youth, the time with my friend would have likely been a chance to be melancholy about my sad life. The fact that I was out in public, wearing clean clothes, and having a conversation from start to finish, just wouldn't have been as special as it is to me now.

I've been a mom for almost six years. Being a parent has forced me to forge a path and define myself. I am a mom. I'd want it no other way. I am completely fulfilled. All of my other goals- I'd still like to be (relatively) pretty, skinny and smart, and having Pottery Barn furniture would be cool once there is nobody living with me who would pee on it or spill grape juice on it- are just added bonuses to my happy life.

In closing, if you normally skim this blog and you want to know the gist of it in one sentence: Have kids. It will make pooping alone TOTALLY AWESOME!