Perpetual Motion - Throwback Thursday

The only time I sat still today was in an MRI machine. Okay, I was lying down. But that was really the only time I was motionless. Even in the waiting room, while I "sat still," I was wiggling my foot, biting my lip, tapping my phone screen. I woke up at 4:40 in the morning, rushed to the gym (where all I can do, for now, is sit on a recumbent bike...hence, the MRI...and pedal and try not to be so bored I want to kill myself), rushed home, helped Hubby with the boys' breakfasts, rushed to get dressed myself, drove to work, stopped for gas, dropped off my son, made it to work in time for an early meeting, taught all day, rushed to an afterschool meeting, rushed my oldest to a dentist appointment while talking to my mother and then hanging up with her mid-call to answer a call from Ben's teacher about his recent not-so-impressive behavior, waited for Hubby to "relieve" me at the dentist so I could rush to my MRI appointment. (I'm out of breath just from writing all that.) I have not included, mind you, the post-MRI tasks of dinner, dishwasher emptying and refilling, washer-to-dryer transferring, and bad self-bikini-wax-job. You would think I was looking forward to lying there, completely still, with nothing to do (and no guilt), music playing through the headphones. But I wasn't. I was ready to get out before I even went in. What a waste of 40 minutes! I scoffed. And I remembered the following post...only the 9th post on this blog, back in 2009. I guess I haven't changed all that much. Neither have my knees, apparently.

I can only do Nothing if I schedule it in

Posted originally HERE on March 9, 2009

I love to run. As luck would have it (my luck anyways), however, my knees don't. So yesterday I had to get yet another MRI done on each knee. For those of you who have never had an MRI, let's just say that it's not exactly fun. If you are even a teeny, itty bitty, tiny bit claustrophobic, you're screwed. There's no other way around that. If you don't actually mind being pushed into a startlingly noisy, sterile coffin-like machine for anywhere from 15 minutes to over an hour and being told to "keep very still" although you are absolutely shivering because they keep that room set to like, oh, maybe 52 degrees, then it's, at best, just a pain in the ass.

My husband's suggestion: "Why don't you sleep?"

"Sleep?!?"

Apparently, that's what he did when he went in for an MRI a few weeks ago.

"It was nice," he said.

And so, as I was lying there "very still," I thought "Okay, maybe I can nap. Maybe I will nap! Sure, I will take a nap!"

Uh. No.
I forgot.
I don't do that.
I can't do that.

My husband is in an almost constant state of relaxation. He can nap in the MRI machine. He can nap (and snore) during the final relaxation pose of yoga class (which is why he was no longer allowed to go with me). I, on the other hand, am always doing something--even when I'm doing nothing.

While in the MRI machine, for example, I accomplished a great deal:

1. I planned this blog post.
2. I planned what I'd wear to work the next day.
3. I planned what I was going to make for dinner.
4. I learned many of the lyrics of today's top 20 hits. (They give you headphones in an attempt to drown out that crazy noise. It doesn't work.)
5. I calculated how much spending money I had left for the week out of my new budget.
6. I counted all the things I might need to spend my spending money on before the end of the week.

Of course...
The blog post took on a life of its own.
I totally did NOT wear that cute outfit.
I got take out.
I forgot all the lyrics.
I'm broke anyways.

When will I learn?

There is always noise in my head. I can't shut it off, unless...I plan for it. How screwed up is that?!? I can actually relax, do nothing, just sit...if it's scheduled. As in..."We have babysitting so let's go to the beach and do nothing." That's the only way. Don't get me wrong. I do things everyday that I find relaxing. I read. I write. I work out. I watch "Lost" and "What Not To Wear".

But these things are all part of My Plan. My Routine. And really, still, they are all activities, things I am doing, and therefore are deemed worthy of my extremely limited time.

In fact, I was recently telling a friend about my summer cruise, and she was saying "Oh, I could never enjoy that kind of vacation. I'm not good at just sitting." And my response was: "That's because you don't have kids! When you have kids, all you want to do is sit." That may be true, but apparently wanting it is not enough for me to break out of my screwed up, noisy little head to actually do it on a regular basis. Not even in the MRI machine.

Breakfast for one in the campground

I am sitting in our campground, waiting for my family to wake up. I just went for a run on the beach. (Helps to offset the beer.) In spite of the fact that there are several families surrounding us, all I hear is the steady hum of the RV air conditioning, some kind of cricket-thing chirping, and one bird whose song sounds like a repetitive "ray-kee, ray-kee."

My run this morning was sensational. The ocean was a greenish mint, and transparent. The sand here is powdery white--like confectioner's sugar--nothing like the sand at home. Although I came across a few people further on down near the condos, our area belongs to a state park, and it's nearly deserted this early.

It was really the only time I've woken up early during this trip, gone off on my own for some down time. Not because I couldn't have; Hubby kept suggesting it. But it just didn't lend itself. For the first three stops, we were busy. There was so much to do, and new things to see (and endless pouring rains in those damned mountains), and I didn't want to miss anything...wanted to be with the kids and Hubby and do stuff and see stuff. And, I was tired. I wanted to sleep in. There were lots of late nights having too much wine or beer, either crab-hunting with the kids or having Grown Up Time out by the fire after they'd gone to bed.

I sit here now, outside my Little-Engine-That-Could-Camper, and I am content.

Calm.

Absolutely and completely calm. Something I rarely am. Considering that I've decided to start therapy again when I return home (and yoga and meditating) just to help find a way to calm my mind more, I sit here and am in amazement of the feeling. It's the beach, the sun, the blue skies, the early morning solo run, the cup of coffee, the feeling of freedom.

That's what this little clunker of a mobile home has given us: a feeling of freedom.

It's ironic how big the fight was when Hubby first proposed we buy an old RV. We don't fight often, and when we do, it's not usually major blow-outs, and never, ever over big decisions. But that one fight--I remember he had found "the perfect RV" (which wasn't even the one we got) on ebay--that fight was a doozy. "That is silly and unnecessary and ridiculous and irresponsible," I had said, with absolute certainty.

And then, after many conversations in which he reminded me how much I liked camping and how much more affordable it would be than flying anywhere, and, probably most importantly, seeing a picture of RVs on the beaches...I caved. I jumped on the bandwagon full-blown. And the night before we were going to buy it, I was the one who had to remind Hubby why it was a good idea.

And now here we are, a couple of years later, and getting ready to put it up for sale when we return home. Not because it was a bad idea--quite the opposite. But because this particular one was a great starter, but Good God, we'd like one that doesn't require prayers before starting any portion of it. And because we have travel plans over the next couple of years that don't include camping.

And as excited as I am about these plans and about getting a newer RV later on, I am so damned melancholy about parting with this one. I have learned a lot about myself in this tin can. I have made some of the best memories with my family in it. I have seen new places I didn't think I'd ever visit. And to think it all started out with one of' Hubby's Dreams and A Huge Fight. So there you go...another lesson: be open, because after all, life is nothing if not an adventure.

Disney Princess Half Marathon-Check!

When I go back to reread the post I wrote back in November about my decision to run the Disney Princess Half Marathon, I am surprised. Surprised not only by the fact that it still makes me tear up, but also by the realization that that was actually my experience: the pain of that miscarriage and our struggles to get pregnant seem like they belong to someone else's life memories, so far and faded is that pain now.

Last weekend I went back to run my third (and quite possibly last) half marathon in Disney, this one in celebration of Just Me and My Boys. As poignant and important as the event was, it did not feel at all heavy. The few times I got emotional, it was a giddy sort of joy--tears of relief mostly--that I got all I had wanted Then. I got my kids. I got to be a mom.

And it was fun. The weekend was filled with silliness (how could it not be when 90% of the runners--even men--were wearing everything from tiaras to tutus?!?) and fun and light. So rather than write another post about my emotional full circle and the meaning of this whole experience for me, I found it best to capture it with some photo ops...

We started out the Race Weekend with the kids' races. Ben ran the
200 meter and took off so fast that Daddy almost couldn't keep up alongside him. Aidan Kai earned his first-ever medal in the 100 meter dash. He was pretty darn proud of himself. (I did not miss the irony that this time around my half marathon weekend started out with me on the sidelines watching my children race...)

After the kids' races, we were off to the Expo which, in the past, had been quite an enjoyable way to spend a couple of hours among vendors and other racers, but this time...good God!...standing in line for packet pick-up or to purchase one single "I Did It! 2011" t-shirt was surely more grueling than the race itself! However, the Big Moment of the expo came when my boys made their "Go Mama" signs to hold up on race day for me:

Back at the hotel room, Hubby and the boys gave me gifts: a pink sparkly cuff picked out by the boys, a pink flask picked out by Hubby (because, after all, what better way to celebrate the culmination of 3 months worth of hard physical training than with a little girly flask?), an amazingly inspiring card, and a picture drawn by Ben during his art center time in school depicting me running throughout the race all in pink and purple crayon (does my kid know me, or what?).

After getting everything ready, we tried to get in a good night's sleep, but I, at least, only managed one solid hour.

By 3:45 a.m., I was ready to run:

And by 4:45 a.m., the boys were ready to roll:

When Cinderella's fairy godmother counted down and the fireworks went off, I was more than eager to go. I was surprised to find that my first couple of miles didn't hurt as much as they usually do, and I settled into a steady pace right away. I was so excited about the whole thing, that I barely listened to any of my music (which is kind of ironic after all the drama about whether or not my personality allowed for me to just run with a random playlist on my shuffle). Every mile or so, Disney provided entertainment of some type: characters, djs, performers, and I was glad I had decided not to carry my camera after all, because I would not have been able to resist waiting in the really long lines to take pictures with some of them (particularly the Captain Jack Sparrow scene and Ben's favorite: Lilo and Stitch). By the time the course started winding towards the Magic Kingdom, I knew my boys would be along the sidelines cheering me on, and the running felt effortless. As we entered Mainstreet, I scanned the hundreds (and I do mean hundreds) of spectators lined up cheering the racers, anxiously looking for the reason I was running. The minute I spotted them, I broke every runners' courtesy rule and weaved across the racers, practically tripping a few of them, to get to my family.

Seeing them there made every step worth it. I don't think I have ever been so elated in the middle of an event. I took several minutes to chat with my boys, give everyone kisses, and take a couple of pictures.

The next 4 miles were a piece of cake, since the route continued around and through the Magic Kingdom and I was still riding the high of seeing the kids and Hubby. It wasn't until mile 9 or so that my infamous knee issues started to kick in and I started to really look forward to finishing. Miles 10 and 11 were pretty exhausting, and my music playlist finally played a role in distracting me, but once I saw the sign for the final mile, I turned it off and just ran. This was it. I had done it all on my own and for all the right reasons, and had actually enjoyed myself. As I approached the finish line, I heard the air horn that signaled Hubby and the boys were nearby and did a little dancing-wave thing for them as I ran on, shouting "I love you guys!"

I got a tad choked up when the volunteer put the medal around my neck after crossing the finish, but didn't have time to dwell on the emotions since I had to walk for what seemed like another 13 miles just to get around the barricades separating the spectators and the racers.

As proud of myself as I am, I do have to say that the person who really deserved the medal this weekend was Hubby, who dealt with two little boys all weekend long, sprinting from viewpoint to viewpoint to ensure they'd be there for me, probably covering even more mileage than I did, and then tending to them for the next couple of days while I recovered, and the rest of the week, since I came home with a raging virus and have been in bed for almost the whole week. P...when I ran the first half, you were there, running by my side and believing in me when no one else did. When I ran the second one to try to get out of my depression, you were once again my rock, and you never let me hit bottom. And now, you were there to celebrate with me and our boys. You never doubt me. You never doubt us. Thank you (and I don't mean just for the flask).

Nothing to prove

It’s pretty exhausting, walking around with a chip on your shoulder, trying to prove people wrong. It can even be pretty tiresome when you’re walking around, trying to prove something to yourself.

But it can also be extremely motivating…like a swift kick in the ass to get you in gear…as in “Oh yeah? Watch this.”

That’s what the last 15 years have been for me, athletically speaking.

Short version: I was the chubby sister, usually the chubby friend, and always the one begging the coach to sit out in phys ed.

Fast forward to my early 20s and a desperate need to get out of my house: I started running. (Well, I started walking and dabbling in a slow painful jog here and there).

When I first started toying with the idea of a 5k, the response was overwhelmingly “3 miles? You sure you can do that?” When I mentioned the possibility of a half-marathon, it turned into laughter and outright mockery.

Well.

Short version: I did several 5ks and went on to run two half-marathons (not to mention a couple of sprint-distance adventure races, complete with obstacle courses, mud pits, and mountain biking).

During all of those training runs, when it started to hurt…when I started to wonder if I could keep going…I thought about all of those people, the ones who thought I just couldn’t do it, the ones who said I was not athletic, the ones who--instead of supporting me from the sidelines--placed even more doubt into my already terrified heart.

And I thought about me. I, too, wondered if I could do it. I wondered every race, every mile, every step. More importantly than proving it to all those people, I needed to prove it to myself. Because the truth was that when those people doubted me and I fought back with anger and more mileage, I never admitted that I wasn’t really sure I could do it, either.

There was nothing like crossing the finish line and that feeling of: “Hell yeah.”

*****

I will be running my third half-marathon next week. I am not running this one to prove anything to anyone. This one will be a celebration of the three boys waiting for me at the finish line, and a celebration of Me.

And I gotta tell you: as I logged in my last long training run yesterday, I realized: it’s way harder to put in the work when you’ve got nothing to prove.

When I hit the pavement for mile 1, I was slammed by the pain in my ankles and calves, caused by my insistence (and stupidity) on wearing heels to work for two straight days. I didn't know how I was going to run another eleven. By the time my watch hit the first hour, I was just forcing myself to move forward, to take one step and then another, to just complete the training session. As I struggled, I reached for something to get me through, to motivate me...an inspirational song on my iPod, a vision of myself crossing the finish line next week, some inkling of that desire, that anger, that need to show the world, to show myself that I could do more than I had ever thought possible.

But it didn't come. Instead, the realization hit me: I was no longer That Girl...the one who set out at the start line of her first 5k, more terrified than she'd ever been. After over a decade, I had finally let that insecure, uncoordinated, scared little kid behind. All the people who had doubted me so long ago had either been forcefully removed from my life or had seen me succeed enough times to finally realize that maybe they'd been wrong all along and they should just shut up and cheer goddammit.

As happy as this epiphany made me (I no longer had to do anything I sorta didn't want to just to see if I actually could...I no longer had to log painful hours on the road or the bike just to see if I had the stamina--mentally and physically--to do so...I no longer had to "prove them wrong"), I also felt slightly deflated.

Damn.

Now I had to finish this damn two and half hour training run out of sheer will.

So now that I've "arrived" in this place in my life, I'm no longer exhausted from walking around with that chip on my shoulder.

Now I'm just exhausted from the damned running.

Running Like a Mom: Party of One

I ran for two hours the other day.

It wasn't the amount of time that was the major accomplishment, however. It was the fact that I did it Alone. Up until that day, I had never run for an extended period of time by myself. And up until that day, I wasn't even sure I'd be able to do it.

I like to run. I do. But the whole doing-something-for-a-couple-of-hours-straight? Well, let's just say that my attention span isn't so great. I start counting down the minutes left. I start thinking about all the other things I could be doing. I start obsessing over how the inseam of my sock is rubbing my pinkie toe. I get bored. I get antsy. I get tired. I lose my mojo.
.

When I trained for my previous half-marathons, I always had Hubby as a running partner. We had just started dating when I started training for my first one, and back then, the idea of running for over an hour seemed, to me, like an absolutely impossible feat. So...there we were, two twenty-somethings with not much to do and lots of time on our hands...so he ran with me. Being a bit of an extreme athlete (mountain biking, off-road triathlons, 3-day-expedition races) a little half marathon training wasn't such a stretch for him, so he became my official Support Crew. He carried my water, paced my time, handed me jelly beans, cheered me along when I'd hit the wall...and on race day? He did all of that AND ran ahead every so often to take pictures of me. No joke. (A few times, he even ran off the race course and stood along the sidelines with the other spectators to literally cheer me on and make me laugh a bit.)

Fast forward one decade and 2 kids later...if I want to train for any kind of event, it's gonna have to be on my own, because we just don't have that kind of time these days. When I tackled the idea of this race, one of the motivating factors for me was that I wanted to do something scary again, and as uncomfortable and downright painful as this training and the 13.1 race day miles is going to be, I wouldn't qualify it as scary. I've done this twice. I know I can complete the event. But what does scare the hell out of me is having to do this all on my own.

Today I went out for 2 hours and 10 minutes. I had to pack my own stuff, plan my own route, carry my own water. When I got tired and thought I was going to have to lie down, right there on the Hollywood Beach Boardwalk, it was only my own voice telling me I could do this, telling me to keep going, reminding me that during long runs it's gonna hurt but I will finish.

I realize that for many people out there, doing something like running by yourself (especially if it's something you've done for a long time) is not such a major personal accomplishment. But you have to understand, I crossed my first busy street when I was 21. Yes. You read that right. 21 years old. I was on vacation in New York and my ex-boyfriend wanted to take a picture of me in front of a restaurant. I looked for traffic, ran across, and smiled "Cheeeeese!". It dawned on me immediately that I had never actually walked around amidst traffic before. (I know...WTF?!?) I've mentioned before that I was brought up extremely sheltered. Pair that with a childhood and adolescence in a city where no one walks anywhere, and you have yourself an adult who had never had to cross a street alone before.

So now you have this 38-year-old mommy of two who finds it incredibly monumental that in a couple of months she will be waking up at 3:00 a.m., lacing up her sneakers, pinning on her race number, figuring out exactly where the hell one carries a disposable camera and some jelly beans for 13 miles, and getting on a Disney bus that will take her to the start of a long distance event...all by herself. This time around, it will be Just Me. I am the only one pushing Me to train, to run, to go. I am relying only on Myself. That's a pretty cool thing.

Disney Princess Half-Marathon: Coming Full Circle

I started running to get away from an unhappy life. It was my escape--literally--out of "that house" and gave me an excuse to be by myself, to do something for me. I had never been athletic. I was one of those kids who got straight A's in every subject but begged the PE coach to "give me a D and just let me sit out." It wasn't that I couldn't do the things they wanted me to do; it was the discomfort I felt being watched while I had to do them. (I will not even get into the horror I felt whenever I'd come out to phys ed and see the Shuttle Run set up.)

But running was easy...not so much physically, since I literally couldn't go longer than 2 minutes at first without feeling like I was going to die...but emotionally. All I needed was a pair of sneakers and my headphones, and to just go: put one foot in front of the other. The results came quick and were easy to measure: At first, I just went around the block, running the corners and walking the straight-aways. Within a few days, I could run the straights and just walk the corners. Before I knew it, I was running 10 minutes straight. And then...my first 5k. Up until that moment, when I crossed my first-ever finish line, I had never ever been so proud of myself. A year or so later, I started toying with the idea of a half marathon. When I mentioned it to my nears and dears at the time, most of them scoffed, pointed, and ridiculed outright. "13 miles? You? There's no way."

Another year (and one divorce later), I crossed the finish line at the 2001 Walt Disney Half-Marathon.

Although there was no longer a need to escape my life, I kept running...although my distances rarely went over 3 miles.

Then in 2004, after nearly 2 years of trying to get pregnant and 13 weeks of a joyous pregnancy, Hubby and I had a miscarriage.

Devastation.

After a few weeks, I knew I wasn't getting "passed" it. Rock bottom was starting to feel pretty damn close, and I realized that if I didn't "do" something, I was going to drown.

So out of nowhere, I decided to go back for another Disney Half with the goal of improving my previous finishing time. Over the next 4 months I focused completely on this race, my training, and my fitness. It gave me something to do. It gave me an outlet for my stress, my thoughts, my emptiness.

At the expo held the day prior to the race, one of the vendor booths was set up for little kids to make signs to hold up during the race. I stood by and watched little girls and boys making banners with puffy paint and sticky letters and markers: "Go Mommy!" "You can do it, Daddy!" "We love you!" Surprisingly, I didn't break down then. I turned to Hubby and said, "One day, I'm gonna come back to do this race, and my kids are going to make signs for me."

The next day, I ran a good race and did beat my previous time, in spite of having a very upset stomach and a lot of nausea the whole way. When we ran through the Magic Kingdom and passed the Dumbo ride, the tears finally came. I mourned, right there on mile 9, for the loss of this little spirit, this baby that wasn't to be, this dream that had been shattered.

I came home and found out a week later that I was pregnant. Ben Kincaid was born on September 16, 2005.

A couple of years after having him, we decided to try again, hesitant and fearful that we'd have to go through another difficult time.

We got pregnant with Aidan Kai on the first try. He was born August 8, 2008.

* * *

Now, I'm going back.

I registered for the Walt Disney Princess Half Marathon, February 2011. A decade after my first big race, and 7 years after crying at mile 9, I will be running for my kids and for myself. We'll go back to the expo and watch Ben and Aidan make "Go Mama!" signs. And when I cross that finish line, this time by myself, I'll run into the arms of My 3 Men: the one who has run along beside me literally and figuratively, and the 2 little ones who came to join us, the ones who made me Mama.

Those Last 5 Pounds

When you go through adolescence on the chubby side with a sister who was genetically destined to be a size 2 and family members who regularly pointed out "you have a pretty face," it can do a number on your psyche.

It didn't matter that in reality I was never actually "fat." At my heaviest, I was what I now refer to as "thick"...and I was still well below the national average. Yet at times I felt like an anomaly. I didn't see all the beautiful women around me of different sizes. I only compared myself to those who were smaller, smoother, sexier: my sister, my thinnest friends, the women in magazines, the trainer at the gym. I sought out perfection and then when I found it, I pointed it out to myself: "See? Why can't you look like her? That is what a good body looks like."

Then I hit my 30's. You know that stupid cliche you always hear about how there's just something about the 30's...how women "find" themselves, settle in to and appreciate their bodies more, forgive their flaws, leave the lights on...? Well, there's a reason it's cliche. That's because for a lot of us, it's true. Most days, I wouldn't trade a wrinkle, a dimple, or an age spot for my 20's. Most days.

But, let me just say I am not one of those who says it was all because of motherhood. You know...the women who say the reason they love their bodies so much more now is because they carried babies? They realized the miracle of pregnancy and childbirth? Uh, no. The miracle of childbirth might have given me two beautiful amazing boys, but it also gave me looser skin, a jagged scar, and a whole new set of body issues. It was, however, the pregnancies and time thereafter that motivated me more than ever to finally make amends with my body, to get it in the best shape possible, to bring that number on the scale to a permanent, healthy home and finally end the discord between my head and my dress size. I was determined to have active (and somewhat fashionable) pregnancies, and then was even more determined to lose all the weight afterwards.

"You know, you really should give away those skinny jeans you had before you got pregnant, because there's no way you're ever gonna fit in those again."

Yes, someone told me that. To my face. Don'tcha love family?

And that was the day I swore to myself that not only would I fit into those jeans by the time Ben was one, but I'd need a smaller pair.

And I did fit into them. And they were too big by the time Ben was one. And then I did it again after Aidan, except this time I wanted to lose "just a little more."

The magic number was 125. It was a number I had not seen since my teen years. It was a number that I thought "the chubby sister" probably couldn't hit. It was the number I thought of when I was floating around at 130 as the "If Only Weight"...as in: "If only I weighed 125 pounds, I could wear that dress." "If only I weighed 125 pounds, I could stop worrying about my weight." "If only I weighed 125 pounds, I'd be just perfect."

And then I did. This week. There it was. 125 pounds. I stepped on and off the scale 3 times just to make sure. 125. The eating right, the waking up twice a week at 5:00 to go to the gym, the miles of running after work...it had all paid off.

And yet, when I looked in the mirror, it was still me. Just smaller. But the parts of my body I never particularly cared for? They were still there, too. Don't get me wrong, I loved what I saw. I love that I'm stronger now than I've ever been, that I can run faster than I've ever run (and in shorts, no less!), that I'm lighter, smaller, healthier. But it's just like that young girl I used to be, seeking out the perfection, finding it, pointing it out, unforgiving, always demanding.

I am sure I'm not alone in this: we spend so much time working towards "those last 5 pounds"...postponing the buying of a great pair of jeans, worrying at the beach about what might be jiggling, stressing, wishing, waiting...waiting for what? At what point do we "get there"? At what point do we make amends with who we are and what we see and what we love and what we don't about ourselves? I thought that point was a number. And then I reached that number and realized This is It. As Good As It Gets. I have arrived. And that magical, cure-all number? Those last 5 pounds? For me, they were realizing that pushing that number down was just an excuse to postpone the real work...the work of accepting myself, of being good enough, of looking around and seeking the perfection in myself, of pointing that out to myself and saying: "See? Look at you. This is what a good body looks like, too."

I think tonight I'll leave the lights on.

Mommy Runs 5k in Tears

Most of the athletic events I've participated in have had some sort of psychological meaning for me. I can't remember even one race I have done "just for fun" (even when I said I was). I'm just not real big on the whole imposing physical punishment on myself for fun. I mean, don't get me wrong. I go to the gym religiously. I sweat. I strain. I run. I mountain bike. And I like all of it, but it has to have some other kind of purpose for me. I mountain bike because it scares the crap out of me. I run because it clears my mind. I go to the gym because I like how strong it makes me feel...yeah, physically, but in my head, too. That's where it counts for me. All the physical stuff has to have a mental pay-off for me.

When I did a 5k last December, it was to prove to myself that I could do one right after having a baby (okay, not right after, but as soon as my doctor gave me the OK). It turned into what I called my "3 in 4"...as in "3 miles 4 months after delivering via c-section."

So when I did a 5k this past weekend, it wasn't just for fun. I said it was, initially. I said I was "just curious" to see if I'd gotten better over the last year. But really, I wanted to see if I could beat my best time, back before I'd delivered 2 human beings. And guess what? I did. I even came in 6th in my age category...a total first. But the best part wasn't that. The best moment happened at the starting line.

Now you all know that I'm not particularly mushy about motherhood (most of the time), but I definitely had a mushy moment at the beginning of that race. Just a few seconds after I started running, I looked over to the sidelines and spotted them: My Boys. All of them. Daddy, camera in hand (as if I had not done about 20 of these in the past few years). Ben, his 4-year-old face scanning the crowd of runners. Even Aidan Kai, content in his stroller, eagerly watching the crowds and commotion.

I saw them before they saw me, so I had the chance to watch them for a few seconds. There they were, all 3 of them, looking for me. Me. And when they spotted me, they started yelling: "Mama! Go Mama!" Even Aidan's little face lit up and he started giggling and flailing his whole body when he realized who that particular runner was.

And I was shocked to discover that I was moved. Moved! Me! I even got teary. I mean, seriously, what the heck is that? Didn't you read my last post???

But yeah, I have to admit that the sight of these three "men"--my men--standing there, looking for me, cheering for me, there for me...it moved me. And I was immediately reminded of another race in my past...one definitely taken on for mental and emotional reasons.

Before I had Ben, Hubby and I had spent almost 2 years trying to get pregnant. And when we finally did, we miscarried. It was the single most devastating moment in our lives. And I knew, right then, that if I did not turn that into Something...if I did not Do something with that pain...it would consume me and I would crumble. So I chose to run the Disney Half Marathon, simply because it gave me something to do, something to think about, something to plan, and running was my escape. Running is what makes me feel strong. And I needed, desperately then, to feel strong.

So this past weekend, while I ran my little 5k for best time but disguised as fun, and I looked over at those boys...the one who got me through all of that devastation then...the one who dropped onto the bedroom floor and cried with me...the one who has been at every single one of my Important Moments cheering me on from the sidelines...standing there with these two little boys we made together...well, it was enough to make even a non-mommy-type like me go soft.

I expected chafing...

I ran today. No wait. There's more.

I ran in shorts.

Shorts.

Like, real running shorts (well, these were hot pink and significantly cuter and slightly less revealing and flapping-in-the-wind-like than those traditional running shorts, but they were actual work-out shorts). You don't understand...for me, this is a really big deal. I own shorts. I wear shorts. But it's one thing to wear a pair of cute, baggy cargo shorts and some sandals while on vacation; it is quite another to go, literally, running around in shorts...thighs and knees and flesh all being pushed and pulled and jiggled and wiggled with the gravitational force of your effort. Even while running on the beach in the middle of the day in 98 degree weather and a gazillion percent humidity, I would wear my uniform of black capri workout pants. I have a drawer full. But the other day while I was looking for sales on still more black capri workout pants, I ran into a sale on shorts. Cute shorts. Black and pink with athletic trim shorts. And I thought: "What the hell? I'll just try 'em on."

Well, I tried them. And when I was surprised by the image I confronted in the 3-way dressing room mirror, I thought I'd buy them (but not before I did a little dress rehearsal jog to check myself out in said 3-way mirror). They sat in my drawer for almost a week before I dared to put them on for a run.

I almost held my breath as I started. I was sure I would feel absolutely naked running around in my neighborhood like that. I was sure that I'd have to yank down the fabric that would keep bunching up between my thighs so many times that I'd have to turn back after a block to change back into my old faithful and safe and hot capris. I was so sure I'd be so preoccupied by the way my thighs looked that I would not even be able to enjoy my run.

But guess what?
I did not feel naked. I felt free.
And every time I tried to yank the bunched up fabric down, there was no bunching to yank.
And I was preoccupied by the sight of my thighs, but mostly because...holy crap!...there was actually a teeny bit of muscle peeking out of them!

I'd love to say that I have finally reached Thigh Nirvana and they are absolutely perfectly flawless. But the truth is they're not. And at 36 with 2 kids (and a Latin background), no matter how hard I work, they never will be. But I felt good about myself on that run. I felt good about having worked as hard as I have for the past year to get myself back into shape after Aidan Kai. I felt good about the fact that I even dared to try, buy, and wear the shorts.

Most of the time, I feel pretty good about myself. I have never wanted to be a size 0. But like so many women, when I look in the mirror, I immediately scan for and focus on the parts of my body that I do not like. I am capable of obsessing over every minor flaw. I look for the bad first, and then get so discouraged that I don't even bother looking for the good. I have always been a glass half empty (or in this case, thighs too big) kind of girl. But I have been working on that, and for me, the shorts were a test: Have I finally gotten to the point where I can admit that I'm (almost) completely happy with my body again? I think my thighs passed.

Parenthood: The Original Endurance Sport

My husband and I competed in a mini-adventure race this weekend. For those of you who don't know what adventure racing is, imagine an extreme off-road triathlon on an unmarked course. Adventure races run the gamut from 2-hour minis like this one to 7-day expedition races. Hubby's been doing them for years and anything under 8 hours is like a warm up for him. For me, this was another Life Experience...another adventure to add to my Do-One-Thing-Everyday-That-Scares-You List. We ran, kayaked, and biked for exactly 2 hours and 23 minutes. We came in 2nd place overall, so we did pretty darn good, but during the race I fell twice, waded through murky water, portaged a kayak through knee-deep shoe-sucking mud, and got bitten by a mosquito on my eye lid. I have scrapes and bruises I can not even account for, and aches and pains in muscles I did not know I had. But I feel AWESOME.

In the past, when we competed in any athletic events, we'd come home and just crash: shower, rent a movie, and eat our traditional "We Raced Today So We Deserve This" meal of pizza, wings, beer, and ice cream. We wouldn't move. Sloth and gluttony. It was glorious.

But then we had kids.

Instead, we found ourselves bouncing and jiggling a fussy 8-month-old and throwing foam blocks with a squealing, hyper 3-year-old...our muddy wet clothes still in the truck, my bloodied scabbed knees stinging, and both of us counting the minutes 'til at least one of us could sneak away for a shower. Wings and pizza were replaced by teriyaki chicken (one of Ben's favorite take-outs) and a bowl of cereal. And instead of a rented movie, we sat through "Monsters, Inc." for the third time. We were in bed by 9:00...only to be awakened 4 times during the night. Ben woke up with an ear ache and an attitude. Aidan with his usual random senseless wailing. I almost laughed...almost. At 3:00 in the morning, exhausted and aching, I realized that from now on, when we are thinking about competing in an athletic event, we have to take into account not only the race itself, but the "post-race requirements" a.k.a. Ben and Aidan. We simply do not have the luxury anymore of being too tired. We will have to know, going in, that after the strain, challenges, and exhaustion of the race itself, we will then have the strain, challenges, and exhaustion of parenting waiting for us when we get home.

I can only "do nothing" if I schedule it in

I love to run. As luck would have it (my luck anyways), however, my knees don't. So yesterday I had to get yet another MRI done on each knee. For those of you who have never had an MRI, let's just say that it's not exactly fun. If you are even a teeny, itty bitty, tiny bit claustrophobic, you're screwed. There's no other way around that. If you don't actually mind being pushed into a startlingly noisy, sterile coffin-like machine for anywhere from 15 minutes to over an hour and being told to "keep very still" although you are absolutely shivering because they keep that room set to like, oh, maybe 52 degrees, then it's, at best, just a pain in the ass. My husband's suggestion: "Why don't you sleep?" "Sleep?!?" Apparently, that's what he did when he went in for an MRI a few weeks ago. "It was nice," he said. And so, as I was lying there "very still," I thought "Okay, maybe I can nap. Maybe I will nap! Sure, I will take a nap!" Uh. No. I forgot. I don't do that. I can't do that. My husband is in an almost constant state of relaxation. He can nap in the MRI machine. He can nap (and snore) during the final relaxation pose of yoga class (which is why he was no longer allowed to go with me). I, on the other hand, am always doing something--even when I'm doing nothing. While in the MRI machine, for example, I accomplished a great deal:

1. I planned this blog post.
2. I planned what I'd wear to work the next day.
3. I planned what I was going to make for dinner.
4. I learned many of the lyrics of today's top 20 hits. (They give you headphones in an attempt to drown out that crazy noise. It doesn't work.)
5. I calculated how much spending money I had left for the week out of my new budget.
6. I counted all the things I might need to spend my spending money on before the end of the week.

Of course, the blog post took on a life of its own. I totally did NOT wear that cute outfit. I got take out. I forgot all the lyrics. I'm broke anyways.

When will I learn?

There is always noise in my head. I can't shut it off, unless...I plan for it. How screwed up is that?!? I can actually relax, do nothing, just sit...if it's scheduled. As in..."We have babysitting so let's go to the beach and do nothing." That's the only way. Don't get me wrong. I do things everyday that I find relaxing. I read. I write. I work out. I watch "Lost" and "What Not To Wear". But these things are all part of My Plan. My Routine. And really, still, they are all activities, things I am doing, and therefore are deemed worthy of my extremely limited time. In fact, I was recently telling a friend about my summer cruise, and she was saying "Oh, I could never enjoy that kind of vacation. I'm not good at just sitting." And my response was: "That's because you don't have kids! When you have kids, all you want to do is sit." That may be true, but apparently wanting it is not enough for me to break out of my screwed up, noisy little head to actually do it on a regular basis. Not even in the MRI machine.