When I Stopped Running (Even Though I Didn't Know It)

I haven't run, like really run, since October 2014.  I was 8 weeks pregnant with my daughter and ran a half-marathon that was only uphill (I'm not even kidding).  I sort of got back into the habit in..ahem...November 2015.  But no real running.

Yesterday, I sent a text to a friend who is beyond inspirational. She's running the Boston Marathon this year, and I wanted to check in now that it was only 60 days out.  She asked.

"When's your next run?"

{{{crickets}}}

I haven't looked at an event page in months. When I see folks in town, post-race, with a medal around their necks and a mocha in their hands, I don't even feel a twinge of guilt or motivation.

What happened to me?

When my little man arrived in the world, I bounced right on back and ran a 5k six weeks after he was born.  Then I ran a 10k, then I ran a half marathon, and I kept right on going.  When my daughter began to flutter around inside me, I was fresh off an awesome half-marathon PR and in the best shape of my life.  I figured I would jump right back into running after a super healthy pregnancy and keep right on running.

But I didn't.

My little squish didn't much care for the BOB , and contrary to what my husband says, I know that her cry is different than my son's was, and what was the point of pushing around a screaming baby? Neither of us were getting any benefit from it.

I thought it would change. I thought one day, I would say, "I'm going for a run," and then we would load up, and we would go, then go again.

Nope. Not yet.

First came a return to work after maternity leave (which coincided with a new school year me and harvest for my husband), a photography business steadily picking up, then a preschooler who desperately needed more attention, and, boom, it was hiking (and mushroom) season and then, suddenly, Christmas.  The months passed with  just that one run.  My pre-pregnancy jeans all began to fit again.  My favorite dress finally zipped.  All without a run.

"When is your next run?"

I left the question in mind, rattling around.  I realized, I feel great.  I'm eating well, probably better than when running ran my life (pardon the pun), in large part because I know I won't just "run it off" later.  I am not scurrying out of the house before my entire family is even awake (not that I could do that with a nine-month-old sleeping in the bed) to push my way to the starting line. I don't spend the days leading up to a race worrying that I'll get sick or roll an ankle. I go to the gym and use the weights without worrying about if I should be running hills, instead. I go for a walk with my whole family instead of leaving them behind so I can run.

When I started running, I needed it to get me back on a healthy track.  I had an unhealthy diet (including some pretty atrocious picks at Starbucks to make up for having to work Saturdays), no fitness goals, and a largely negative attitude about my career.  Running got me back in fighting shape, both mentally and physically.

I'm not going to lie and say I don't need running anymore, but my relationship with it has changed. I don't feel the same pull. It's not the same drug.  Maybe I'll wake up one morning soon, craving a run, but for now, I'm finding healthy elsewhere.

 

More of This

On Saturday, we spent much of the day not even knowing where our son was or what he was doing.

And that's the way it used to be when we were young.

On Saturday, we dropped the boy off for his first extended play date, with friends we trust, friends who "get" his wily little ways. The girl stayed with a trusted babysitter.  And off we went on a day date.

We hiked. We ate. We talked. We shopped for appliances. We did the things that are more challenging to do with the tiny humans in tow.

And we never once worried about our son.

We picked up the girl from home and went to join the boy at the birthday party that extended from his play date.  He wasn't anywhere to be seen when we arrived; so, we grabbed one of the offered adult beverages, found some friends, and started talking.

And that's exactly what I remember my parents doing.

Someone told us, "Oh, he's inside with the boys."

He showed up after a bit, told me he was staying forever at D's house, and went on about his life.  Another mother helped him get some lunch, while I watched from afar, amazed at his willingness to get help where he needed it, not solely relying on me. Only when he crashed into D on the trampoline did he need a hug. He got his hug and moved on with his play.

We circulated, talked with the other parents of preschoolers, drank wine, caught up, ate cake. 

The girl fell asleep on my chest in her carrier. I kissed the top of her head and hugged her warm little body.

No one really kept track of their kids, because we were all keeping track of them together.

And I remember having dozens of parents I could trust.

The boy asked D's dad to replace the battery in the drive-on tractor, the battery my son apparently wore down to nothing while driving it around for two hours. The kids flocked to the resurrected tractor. At one point, D and A were in the seats, with C and J piled on top of them, all four them going for a ride.

And I remember flying down the driveway on the toy Winebago, with at least five kids, which was at least four kids too many, trying to ride it, too. I have a scar to accessorize the memory.

The kids moved on to something else. They ran. They jumped. They crashed. They threw the football. They got snacks and juice and chips and help from every parent there.  They ran inside, far out of view, and climbed into tents on top of bunk beds.

And I remember the sheer joy of the first of my independence. Of running until I had no breath. Of giggling and laughing under the blankets. Of begging my mother for more time, even when she hadn't told me we were leaving.

The sun lingered. The warmth of the day remained.  We told the boy he had only five minutes, and that stretched into twenty. 

We finally gathered his toys, his sweatshirt, and his wayward shoes. We piled into the car. 

He fell asleep within an instant.

And I remember the sweet exhaustion of a day well played.  And I hope for more of this, much, much more. For the chance for a blissfully full childhood. For the chance to be the adults I revered.

For memories that shape a lifetime. 

 

Sometimes We Get More Than We Give

To say it's been a rough month or so is the biggest understatement I've made this year.

Mostly, it's things happening around me that have made life complicated and challenging, but still, the challenge is there, and I'm working on staying afloat.

Remember that whole 35% post? Remember that part when I said that my mom had been declared cancer free? Turns out...not so true anymore.  My lovely, spunky, strong mama is battling round 2 of breast cancer. It sucks.  It sucks for far too many reasons to count, but that's one "thing" happening around me. It impacts a little bit of everything, from having the take-it-for-granted kind of emergency childcare I need to planning for big future events to just that jolt in my heart whenever I remember. 

And then there was that time my daughter got kicked out of daycare. Why? Oh, she's an infant who needs to be held. A lot.  I know, how demanding, right? I'm not saying it's easy to care for an infant who isn't easily entertained, but that's sort of the gig with infant care, right? You know that you're not going to get your own stuff done when you're watching someone else's infant.  We had four glorious weeks of family in from out of state to watch my itty bitty, and now we have three marvelous people caring for her during the week.  It looks like we've nailed down full-time care starting in January, but folks? Finding infant care is NOT easy, and it definitely gave my brain power, planning ability, and all the other things I need to do, a big hit.

Which means, I've been a taker, not a giver. I'm taking the offers from friends to come out of the woodwork and watch my baby girl. I'm taking offers of loaner carseat bases. I'm taking offers of dog sitting over the holidays because we left that one small detail too late in the game to get our usual sitters.

I'm taking hugs.

I'm taking comfort.

I'm taking playdates.

I'm taking the offer from a friend to make a diaper cake because I ran up against a deadline I thought I could manage, and I couldn't.

I'm accepting that this is a time in my life when I need to say, "Yes, please," to offers of kindness. I'll reach a point (eventually), when I can make those offers myself.

For everything there is a season...

It's awkward and uncomfortable for me to need so much help.

But it's beautiful to have those around me who can offer that help.

All the feels. All of them.  

But seriously, thank you. I've never in my life needed so much at one time, and I will remember the kindness and the favors and the hugs.  

Just Do It

Have you read those stories about moms who pick up cars or other two ton objects off of their children? Or moms who fight off bears or cougars to protect their young?

Yeah, this is sort of like that.

As much as I like to do things for myself, I have, over the years, developed a tendency to, shall we say, delegate. If I can't open a jar, I ask my husband. If I need a large item delivered to my home, I ask my dad.  I arrange for things to get done, much that same way I arrange for dinner to happen, even if I'm not the one cooking it.  Monday, we have leftovers. Check. Tuesday is dollar taco night. Check. Wednesday, we need to eat the lettuce from the garden. Check...

I can't arrange for someone to open the box that contains my son's NEW FAVORITE THING when he's right there, asking me to "bin, bin, bin."  Seriously, he's like that chick on those old Mervyn's commercials, "Open, open, open," but he's way cuter, and you know in my house.

If he's tired after a hike, I can't arrange for someone to pick him up and carry him down the hill.

When he needs me to "six" (uhm, fix...) his "boken" toys, I can't simply call tech support and hope that someone can reattach the rear seat onto the John Deer tractor, right now. 


A friend of mine, a runner, shared a tip she read about how to get faster, "Harden the f*** up." Simple, some might even argue elegant...It's true for running, and it's true for parenting.

I can't just sit down on the carpet and cry along with my son when the box won't open.  I have to open the box.  I don't get to pout and run down the hallway when there are no more spoons. I have to wash the spoons so that my son can eat his afternoon snack. I have to "harden the f*** up." I pull on that vast supply (seriously, where does it come from?) of mom strength, and just do the things.

Yes, Ari has two parents. Yes, he has a wealth of family and friends who love him, but I can't call my husband at work or my parents thirty minutes away to make the oatmeal cook faster.

So, I stopped arranging and started doing.  I figure out how to open the box. It might not be pretty, but it's open.  I figure out that milk in a cup with a straw but no lid offers the best chance for a spill-free snack time. I kiss owies. I carry an exhausted 30 pound toddler. I become a horse when my son wants to ride a horse.

I stand by my last post and know that I need to stop reading the panic-inducing worst-case scenario parenting stories, but I also need to just figure out how to do things - not the all consuming crazy-making Pinterest things (because, seriously, he's not even two; he doesn't need a scaled model of our house in the backyard), but, you know, the day-to-day life things.

I can handle the day-to-day things, unless, of course, there's a magical fairy who wants to help? Nope?

It's okay, I actually like doing those things. 

The Land of 1,000 Grandparents

Amidst the hubbub of the holidays, the grandparents descended.

Little Dude is the only grandchild of five grandparents - that makes for one loved little boy.  All of the grandparents are fascinated by him.

He is equally "into" this grandparents.  In fact, when the grandparents aren't around, Little Dude asks for them daily. We go from door to door, proving that they are not in fact waiting silently outside until someone finds them.

Luckily, the grandparents did eventually appear at the door, because in our infinite wisdom, we rented a house on the ocean with stairs.  My son is endlessly entertained by stairs. "Up!" "Down!" Did I mention the stairs were hardwood and steep? And that he still sleeps in footie pajamas that can cause a toddler (or, let's face it, a full grown human) to tumble down the stairs at any, panic-stricken moment?

Had it just been my husband and me, I think we would have gone batty trying to help our son expend all of his energy as he frolicked around the house giggling like a madman.

Instead, we had two very important people in the life of a frolicking toddler: two grandfathers.

My dad is Pappy. My husband's father is Grandpa. Together, they are known as Boppy.  Our son would look in between them, back and forth, "Boppy!" "mmmmBoppy!" He's far too young for Hanson, so I know the "mmmmm" was just his thinking noise.

The grandmas loved, cuddled, and read, but the grandpas...oh....they swung, chased, threw, tickled, then chased some more.  The manic giggles of a toddler filled the house. And he took three hour naps and slept all night. As Little Dude likes to say, "More!"

Little Dude would start things off by closing one of the doors, screaming, "Byeeeeee" as he did, then staring back at us through the glass, or continuing to yell until someone responded.  Apparently a "bye" must be returned. He opened and closed doors for minutes - anything that entertains him for more than 60 seconds is a winner.  Best of all, he was willing to spread the love and play with any of the six adults in the house.

In the land of 1,000 (okay, four) grandparents, the care for one jumping, skipping, door closing, stair climbing boy is not only possible but fun. My husband cooked. I took photos. We left our exhausted-from-all-of-the-playing, napping son in a house of four exhausted-from-all-the-playing, napping grandparents so we could hike together in the woods.  And when our son wanted only us, we weren't ravaged with exhaustion from having done of all of the chasing, swinging, throwing, and tickling, as well as all of the cooking, cleaning, laundry folding, and feeding the toddler for the last several hours.

Having the grandparents around to share some of the play time, made me feel like a better parent. When I was fresh and energetic, I could easily give Little Dude my full attention, without having to mentally shove away the list of all of the things to be done.  Being able to trust that the grandparents enjoyed the time they were spending with their grandson meant that I could be a better wife and focus on my husband when we had time together.

How do families do this alone? I have endless respect for single parents. I know I would not be the same mother if I my husband weren't here, by my side, being a father, and I also see so clearly now that having a solid unit of family around makes everyone happier.

Now that the grandparents are no longer around 24/7, our son melts down before bedtime and can only be comforted by looking at all of the pictures of his grandparents. I cannot magically make Boppy come out of the pictures, but oh, I wish I could.

I'm thinking of starting a family compound. Let's win the lottery, or write bestselling books, or just magically come into millions of dollars, then we can all live together in The Land of 1,000 Grandparents (we can throw in some aunts, uncles, and cousins, too). Who's with me? "Peese?"

For now, all I can do is count down the days until we travel across country to plop ourselves right down in The Land of 1,000 Grandparents, Two Aunts, Several Cousins, Friends That are Family...