I hate porn.

This video caught my eye for several reasons.

One is that I know these situations are not uncommon. The husband used to work for a cell phone retailer, and I heard plenty of stories of refurbished phones being distributed with the same sort of material still stored on them. So when they say that they go through a rigorous screening process, I'm hesitant to jump on board with that-- it happens far too frequently for everything to really be screened and caught. My guess is that this story just got some attention because the family that received it wasn't desensitized to the material, which brings me to the second reason this video caught my eye--

The family reacted like this was a horrible, tragic thing to happen to their son, and rightfully so.

Living in several different worlds (one as a clinical professional, one as a member of society) I receive two very conflicting messages. The clinical side, supported by countless research on the damaging effects of pornography on both the individual (resulting in addiction, inability to engage in sexually appropriate relationships, escalating to increased risky sexual behavior, and eventually deviance) as well as relationships (relationship trauma, infidelity, disruption/destruction of the family unit) sends the message that this kind of media is inappropriate, undermines healthy relationships, and results in a far reaching damaging effect on society as a whole. As a member of society, though, the message is that this kind of thing is totally normal, totally healthy, and in fact, is encouraged, and those who argue otherwise are insecure and need to explore within themselves why they feel it is such a terrible thing.

Those who agree with said message from society, please let me know, and I'll be happy to share the peer-reviewed studies from well respected research institutions that identify how such a message is flawed.

What intrigued me again about the video was the end result-- GameStop decided to "make things right" and gave the child a brand new nintendo gaming system to replace the original machine that was filled with the pornographic images. While I applaud them for admitting a mistake and attempting to make amends, I am also saddened that nothing can really be done to undo the damage caused by being exposed to such images at an age where one is not equipped to handle those images. Good grief, at 26, when I'm exposed to pornographic images I still have a strong, adverse reaction, and while it would be nice to get a brand new shiny toy each time it happens, it doesn't erase the images or the trauma they've caused.

But the idea is an interesting one... GameStop acknowledged that exposing a child to pornographic images was damaging and restitution needed to be made. So now I wonder-- when is everyone else going to get on board with that? When I walk into a local shop and see an advertisement with a woman posed sexually, wearing little to no clothing, all for the sake of promoting a product and garnering attention, when will my sons be compensated for the inappropriate exposure when they are not at an age to consent to such imagery? When will any kind of compensation will be offered to me, as their mother, for attempting to protect them from exposure to such materials that have empirically been shown to have damaging effects on brain development, chemistry, and can potentially result in the development of deviant behaviors later in life?

I have a pretty good grasp on my responsibility as a mother. I don't allow inappropriate media into my home. I got into an email dispute with Spotify to remove my account from their services after my complaint of a large Victoria's Secret ad popping up on my entire screen when using their product was unavoidable, thus potentially exposing my child to everything they had to offer. A request to my pediatrician's office to remove a photograph displayed on the wall exposing a high school student's abundant cleavage in a very revealing top was responded to warmly and the image was replaced with something appropriate. I do what I can to keep normalized pornography out of my home, but all of it feels a lot like adding gauze to the wounds while something larger, something stronger, continues to stab.

How can we stop the cuts? When does that intervention come in?

The "Pretty People."

It's been a while.

The absence has been a direct result of my total lack of running, which has contributed both to an overall sense of laziness (thus deciding prior to setting down to write that engaging in any such activity would require more effort than I was motivated to put forth), as well as a sense of embarrassment and loss of identity that interfered with coming up with anything to write. That isn't to say I have given up running completely-- I attended a group run a couple weeks ago, and I have been visiting my treadmill occasionally (it's too cold to take the kids out in the double jogger). I was dismayed on my last treadmill attempt, however, when I discovered that running just one mile at a ten minute pace resulted in my abdomen feeling as if it were splitting in half.

I felt validated, however, when I discovered the next day at my first ultrasound that I was actually 19 weeks pregnant and not the 13 weeks we had initially thought. Huzzah for that.

So in the pain (and frustration-- my last pregnancy, I ran until 7 months), I have been on the lookout for an elliptical to get a good cross training regimen in place until I can run successfully after this babe arrives to as to avoid starting from scratch. I have a half marathon in mind, and a goal to PR by seven minutes on its very hilly terrain. I'll do it, gosh darnit, and therefore have to keep up the sweat in the mean time.

So what does a running mama write about when she is no longer running? Instead, I'll shift to my other passion (well, you know, other than my children, because that could get really boring really quickly to anyone and everyone who isn't me or a grandparent of said children):

Being pretty.

No, that doesn't translate to a blog about the latest lipstick shades or how to accessorize that bedazzled scarf to compliment your figure. I'm the last person on the planet that should offer fashion advice or makeup tips-- my husband actually told me early in our marriage that he wanted us to run home to change before heading to a social gathering because I, and I'm quoting here, "looked homeless." I, on the other hand, was more than okay with going out in public in my outfit, hence why I was already out in public in said outfit. So not so fashion savvy-- I was the first daughter to two very educated, very brilliant in the sciences parents, who knew nothing about hair styles or cute shoes or what brands were in, because what was the point? The lab coat would just cover it, or there'd be animal blood, or who wants to wear heels to stand all day looking through a microscope?

No, those things were not imparted on me as a child. When I left the nest and started the process of seeking a mate, I began to attempt to self educate through the use of magazines and other media which imparted an incredibly objectified, narrow view of what beauty was. My eating disorder went off in full swing, but my hair was no longer frizzy, my makeup was always in place, and the numbers on my clothing indicating size were getting smaller and smaller, which by all the definitions I had been given, meant that I was becoming acceptable. Of course, no matter how low the number on the scale got, or how many boys expressed interest in dating me, I still viewed myself as the awkward, chubby girl with a stutter who was only spoken to by a member of the opposite sex when they were interested in dating one of my friends. I still feel like this person most of the time.

Then, there's my husband. A classically good looking guy. He's one of those people who literally walked into a trendy clothing store in the mall when he was a teenager, and without expressing any interest or even opening his mouth to speak to anyone, he was offered a job to work there. He's just one of those people.

You know-- one of the "pretty people."

So as my pregnancy progresses, and I'm in the phase where people look at me and can't tell I'm expecting but instead assume I just really like candy, I about fell out of my chair when my husband told me about a conversation he'd had with a coworker. He'd shown her pictures of his family, and she made some snarky remark about how it's impossible to understand how difficult life really is when you're just a whole family of the "pretty people."

His recounting of the story to me kind of lingered in the air for a moment, and then I clarified-- was she including ME in that scenario?

In fact, she was.

I laughed. I snorted. I dismissed her assessment as that of someone who was delusional, had a vision impairment, or simply was being kind (in a backhanded, angry sort of way).

But then I thought about it, and it made me wonder-- how many times do I group others that I encounter as members of the "pretty people"? The people who, when they start a conversation with me, I write off as them simply being charitable, or bored, or looking to talk to my pretty-people husband? They could also be the awkward, chubby, stuttering girl who was good at math. No one tells that version of the Ugly Duckling story-- the one where the beautiful swan remains unconvinced that it is no longer the Ugly Duckling-- but I'm willing to bet that in the world we live in, where women are constantly objectified, minimized (both in the terms of the importance we play in society as well as literally minimized through photoshop), and normalized pornography is disguised as "empowerment," I bet we live in a world filled with Ugly Ducklings in swan's clothing (or homeless person clothing, depending on whether their husbands laid out their outfits that morning).

So if you don't mind, I'm going to shift my focus for a bit. I'm sure I'll include some fascinating tales of my elliptical stunts (I have managed to fall off a stationary bike before, so this could be fun), but I'll make my own little temporary soap box for it a bit and get comfortable. It's the last I can do while this expanding belly takes over my ability to sleep comfortably (that starts earlier and earlier with each pregnancy, doesn't it?).

In the meantime, here's some cuteness of my wee one just two days after his first birthday-- Doing my part to make more of the "pretty people," one babe at a time.

Ignore the grease stains on the belly-- that's what happens when the clumsy pregnant lady attempts to help take the chicken out of the oven for Christmas Eve dinner.

My Marathon

October 20th came and went, and the day before, I felt a little twinge in my heart.

A sense of panic.

I turned to the husband in the car, and I said, "There's something big happening tomorrow. What are we forgetting? What do we have going on?"

Then I remembered-- the marathon I had been training for, but did not sign up to do due to injury. Doubled over with morning sickness 75% of my day, I was grateful I did not pay to be at a starting line I would probably have puked at.

I managed to get out there today-- quite the accomplishment, as most days I am found in an upright fetal position trying desperately to keep what I just ate down while making sure my kids don't do anything that will result in a trip to the emergency room. As I was running, I felt amazing. I felt like I could go much further than the 5k I had planned.

Then I thought, Hey. This is a big deal. So I didn't pay $80 to go on my run today. So I'm not wearing my racing singlet or a bib. So I haven't tapered after running several 20 mile training runs for today. But I'm sick as a dog. I'm an almost mom of 3 under 3. I'm lucky if I get the dishwasher unloaded and if I can make the toddler's peanut butter and jelly sandwich without dry heaving in the sink. I was up until 2 a.m. last night because the toddler threw up on the only set of sheets we have for our new bed, and I was doing laundry while everyone else passed out on the couch. My mileage has been, at most, 9 miles per week lately.

And I felt awesome.

So while this wasn't the coveted 26.2, and there wasn't a timing chip on my shoe, I still felt like I earned a massive medal to dangle around my neck.

Here's hoping that the medal comes later in the form of a much needed nap.

Sparse.

My running lately has been about as consistent lately as my writing. Today, I convinced myself to go out for a run. Put on the clothes, told the toddler, geared up the stroller, and headed out the door. I had my NPR podcast fresh and ready, and I was looking forward to getting in a run.

Then, it/I sucked (wind).

I want to blame it a little on the weather. I was wearing shorts and a short sleeve tech t, and I was HOT. It felt humid, sticky, and I did not try at all to avoid running through the sprinkler overlapping the sidewalk (much to the ten month old's dismay). I was a bit dehydrated, and due to my inconsistent running, my 5k was eagerly interrupted by my full compliance to the toddler's request to stop at the park that is 3/4 of a mile from our home.

I needed the break.

I could also blame it on the double stroller. My poor shape. My children's poor sleep patterns the past couple of weeks (can you call it "sleep patterns" if they aren't sleeping?).

But I think what's really to blame is the tiny human wreaking havoc on my insides, even though he/she is about the size of a sesame seed.

Hence the dehydration-- and probably the insufficient calories to sustain anything resembling a tempo run.

Oy. Here's to hoping I only have to push through a month or so of this.

Fist pumps and air guitars.

Do you ever have those days where you're so emotionally shot, so drained, so deep into the pits of un-caring that you throw caution to the wind and just do something crazy?

For me, that comes in the form of buying music and abandoning any stress or thoughts of sticking to a strict budget.

After loading my ipod up with all of the angsty, angry girl songs I could find from Glee's repertoire, I loaded the kids up in a particularly blustery Midwestern evening, and pounded out a 5k.

Extra calories burned for lip syncing and some pretty sweet dance moves.

My father who spent much of our adolescence attempting to embarrass us by dancing in parking lots would be so proud.

If run-dancing becomes an Olympic sport, I'll see you on the podium.

Growing up.

When I was a kid, my self esteem was laughably low. I can say "laughably" now, because I've been through therapy. Before, though, it was depressing. Depressing to the point where I convinced a therapist to write me a note telling my apartment complex to allow me to have a cat (they still said no). Regardless of my long list of accomplishments, I never felt like I was enough.

Some of this stemmed from external (lack of) validation, but over time, I had rehearsed little tidbits confirming my inadequacy in my head often enough that the voice behind them was my own. So it didn't matter that I was a national qualifier for forensics, or that I was treasurer of thespians, or that I played junior varsity soccer. It didn't matter that I had a lead in the musical, or that I was taking oodles of AP classes, or that I was in the gifted program. Because even if those things were on my resume, so was the glaring mark against me--

My weight.

Really, my stomach. Even at the peak of my eating disorder, I never acquired the chiseled abdominal muscles, the inability to pinch an inch.

So, I look back. And through therapy, I "reparented" the child Me and told her why all of the things she did were good. That her accomplishments were meaningful, and she was meaningful. I AM meaningful.

Fast forward. Now I'm a super awesome mom who can sometimes manage to get the kids through the day AND unload the dishwasher (behold my amazingness). I manage to keep three dogs and four chickens alive on top of my tiny humans, and most days, I can even squeeze in a run.

I've got some good things going for me.

But then, the old voices can linger. After two children, the problemal abdominal on some days looks as if it is beyond the point of return. The reflection in the mirror can often resort to the same pose-- straight on, eyes focused intensely on my middle, a mouth turned to scorn.

But where are the AP classes? The JV Soccer team? The lead in the musical?

If I dare let my eyes travel, I see my strong arms. My collar bone stands triumphant, shouting my beauty for all to behold. My legs seem almost unfair to the rest of the world, with their strength and tone that comes almost effortlessly after a few training runs.

So the stomach remains. But it does not define me. It does not disqualify me. And on some days, it too can scream of its own accomplishment, having housed two amazing tiny humans, and will not cower in the retorts of what the world has determined as acceptable. Those days are not the norm-- but they are there.

And on those days, it's okay if the dishwasher doesn't get unloaded.

Arriving at the light.

Four weeks doesn't seem like a super long time. Twenty eight days. Shortest month of the year. A few weekends, a blur of playdates, gymnastics classes, visits to the park.

It becomes a lot, lot longer, however, when your happy pill is taken away. At first, the diagnosis was the IT band. After nursing it time and time again, though, it was discovered that it was not my IT band at all-- but something was twisted/torn/strained/ouchie in my gluteous region. The good thing was I could jump, squat, climb, and do various other moves (and therefore, exercises) without feeling a hint of pain. As soon as I started to run, though, the movement forward caused the injury to scream at me for mercy.

Very frustrating.

The other day, though, I was at the neighbor's, and my toddler requested that I retrieve his toy lawn mower from our yard. A quick dash across the street, and I was best. Mommy. Ever. But the feeling of being so happy with being able to appease my son so easily could not match the joy of being able to run across the street and back without feeling any pain.

So come Saturday, I felt inspired.

I sent the husband off on his group bike ride, and the nine month old went down for a nap. I put in some P90X (my latest adventure), and after doing my workout, I looked at my toddler.

"Do you want to go running?"

"YEAH!"

So when the nine month old woke up, I took out my running shoes. I asked the toddler,

"What are these?"

"Mommy running shoes."

Okay. It hasn't been THAT long.

Out I went, the two in the stroller, and I sucked wind for four miles. I didn't bring my garmin, because I definitely did not want to push myself too hard and re-injure. Knowing my pace would have made me forget listening to my body-- I'm too competitive to be smart. So I was probably slow. I was definitely feeling it cardiovascular wise (in spite of biking and working out otherwise during the past twenty eight days), but I was out there. Running. Just me and my kids.

I felt like me again.

And it's good to have me back.

Interruption.

This won't be my usual type of post.

I know, I know. You were so looking forward to another blog post about NOT running on a running blog. Sadly, that will have to wait until next week (by the by, as of tomorrow, it will have been four weeks since my last run... which was seven miles on a treadmill. Does that even seem fair?).

In the meantime, I have something to share.

Years ago, freshly married, I took a job at an eating disorder clinic. This was a dream come true for me-- this was the population I wanted to serve. I could identify with so much of their hurts, their expectations for themselves, and I wanted to be a beacon of hope of what life could be in the absence of the perils of Ed. Starting out, it consisted of a lot of training, and on my very first clinical day (actually working with the patients), we went to a ropes course on family day. There weren't enough staff for me to shadow and still have someone with every group of girls, so I was sent off on my own with a group of gals where I had to fake having any kind of authority whatsoever.

There are many things I fear in life: Failure. Disappointing others. ET.

Heights.

Being at a ropes course was not really my cup of tea.

The obstacle we were given was to climb up a ridiculously high tree to a platform, and then leap from the platform to grab a metal hoop that was dangling from said ridiculously high tree. I thought about the last time I was convinced to go on a ferris wheel, and cried as I rocked myself on the floor of the basket until the ride was over. Climbing this ridiculous tree was certainly not covered in the job description.

I surveyed the ladies. We had someone who used to be an acrobat, and she looked totally at ease, in her element. The other gals were varying shades of excitement and anticipation. Then the youngest, a quiet girl of sixteen, looked as white as a ghost. She stared up at the ring, her jaw set, and her hands were at her side, her thumbs picking the cuticles of her other fingers.

"You gonna do it, Katie B?"

I looked at the sixteen year old. In that moment, not focusing on that stupid tree was what I needed to not piddle all over myself for what was to come.

I looked back at the patients. "I'll do it if [sixteen-year-old] does it."

She didn't even look at me. "Oh, I'm going to do it."

Each girl climbed up the tree. Each one, when asked what they were jumping for, said, "Recovery."

I climbed up that stupid tree, my feet, hands, and knees shaking violently with each movement. When the gals yelled up, "What are you jumping for?"

I yelled back, my eyes squeezed shut, "I'm jumping for you!"

I didn't reach for the ring. I just jumped from the platform, grateful for the experience to be over. The girls saw my fear, saw what I did, and instantly we had rapport. I was forever grateful for that sixteen year old girl's bravery.

A couple months would pass, and I'd be at a meal with that sixteen year old. It was her last day, and I could tell she was riddled with anxiety. My heart ached for her, and I so badly wanted to wrap her up in a cocoon of safety, comfort, and self love to help her combat her disorder outside the warm walls of the treatment center.

Another couple months would pass, and then I got a message in my work email.

That sixteen year old, who had inspired me so, had taken her life.

It was apparent how young and undeveloped I was in my professional career, because the boundaries weren't there. I hadn't put up the walls or learned how to distance myself in such a way that I did not fall absolutely in love with each patient I was able to serve. The loss of this bright light, this person who influenced me so, took a significant piece of me that day.

And so, on this running blog, I ask you today to donate to another running friend of mine's Suicide Walk page. She has her own story, and I know that so many people do have their own story of how suicide has affected their mortal tale.

So head over there. A couple dollars would be awesome. This is one of those tragedies where you spend forever after asking yourself what you could have done differently. This walk, this fundraiser, is an opportunity to do something now. Do something for what could come-- and what can hopefully be prevented.

Do something for that piece that has been taken.

Thank you.

You inspire me.

Being on the bike, I crave running. Climbing a hill, I imagine what it would be like to just be me, my glutes, quads, hamstrings, and my awesome neon shoes on that pavement, conquering something that looked so daunting in the distance. I see people out, knowing it took them just throwing on their running clothes and heading out the door to enjoy their workout, and I long to be in their moment. That sense of feeling like you did something hard, you did something good, and it was all for you. No matter what happens the rest of the day, you got your run in. So it's okay.

So when I was doing my long ride, finishing up after a couple chilly hours in the early morning, and I came up to a gal out running, I was humbled. I was speechless. I was inspired. On the trail, in the early hours of a Saturday, this woman was out doing something hard. Doing something good. Doing something for her.

But she was a reminder that it isn't just for her.

This gal did not look like the typical runner. She had a cotton t-shirt on, but underneath, you wouldn't have found chiseled abs and taut, tan flesh. She wasn't wearing a super trendy running skirt, and her running shoes weren't outfitted with the latest technology the running industry has to offer. She was simply a gal out running. And every second of it looked painful, uncomfortable, and knowing what she was feeling, no one would have blamed her for a second for stopping to walk.

But she didn't.

Research has shown that women often do not engage in exercise because they fear what other people will think of them because they do not look like the typical athlete.

I do not consider myself to be a typical athlete (mostly, I'm a mom who runs), but I do know that exercise makes you feel good. It helps you love you, appreciate you, and gives your body the endorphins and fitness necessary to be healthy and happy. So to deny yourself of that goodness out of fear of what others think is a sad commentary on what our society has determined is important.

So I don't look like the typical athlete. I have muscle definition in my arms, slamming legs, and a beautiful collarbone. My stomach looks like someone knocked over the mixing bowl of pancake batter. But I was running enough to be that obnoxious person that would push the pace and still be conversational, so I feel like I can speak for the part of the population you may fear is judging you:

You are amazing. My heart is so full when I see you, because I know what you're doing is so difficult. Running, or any exercise, is awful at first. It is for all of us. The body fights against what is uncomfortable. It's convinced you're dying, and your brain can be your worst enemy, telling you to stop and give up. But your heart keeps you going. Your heart gets that foot to move in front of the other, because you aren't running just for you, are you? You're running for your children. You're running so you will have the energy to play and keep up with them, and be involved with them so they know how important they are to you. You're running for your siblings, so they won't have to watch one of their best friends go through complications related to chronic disease. You're running for your spouse, so you will have the strength to help them through the hard stuff you'll encounter together, and so you can process the suck when you're strengthening your relationship.

You're running for you. You're running to give you the goodness that fitness has to offer, because your heart recognizes that you are worth it. The people you love are worth it. Everything important in your life is worth getting through that awful feeling that your body tells you to give up on when you start running.

And to be witness to that, to be a part of that moment, is truly humbling.

Thank you. Thank you for recognizing you, and your world, are worth it.

Poor, poor, neglected blog.

Good grief. It's amazing what not running can do to your motivation to write a running blog. That isn't to say I have been doing nothing. I've been getting jiggy with it with this guy:

(image) 

Holy. Moly. Now, I haven't been doing this as regularly as I would like (my goal lately has been to bike every other day, and do strength training every other day). I checked this sucker out from the library, because that's what you do when you're a Stay At Home Mom and your husband's income consists mostly of warm fuzzies at the local domestic violence shelter.

I shy away from DVD workouts, mostly because my experience has been they don't do a whole lot for people who are already athletic. They are FANTASTIC for you if you aren't an exercise fiend/addict, but it's hard to go from running 35+ miles a week to swaying side to side and clapping, and still feel like you're getting anything out of it. (Okay, the swaying side to side thing may be a slight exaggeration-- but I've done my fair share of workout videos in the past that consisted of doing that at least once).

So I'm familiar with Biggest Loser. I like Bob. He's kind of a goober, and as a former thespian, I like goobers. So I popped the sucker in.

I almost cried, it hurt so good.

And while it hurt my abs like whoa, it was my BACK that was all sorts of lactic acid-filled the next day. Which is fantastic to me-- I have a tendency to focus to much on the front of my core (my problem area) and that results in a muscle imbalance, and then I have awful posture. I was so impressed with the different moves he uses, and I never felt bored. I wanted to throw things at the screen once or twice, but never out of boredom. And Bob in all his goober gloriousness gives me a nice face to look at without making it awkward. You know what I'm saying.

So as someone that works out perhaps a little too strictly, it was really nice to find a workout dvd that really made me feel it. So there you go. A workout DVD reviewed that I got from the library. So it was free-- but I have to return it in three weeks. That is, unless the toddler hides it, then I'll have to purchase it. But after doing it a few times-- I don't think that would be so bad.

"Mommy Running?" NOPE. Sigh.

Still not running. Still injured.

I don't really want to talk about it.

(Insert some ridiculous picture of a cat with some grammatically incorrect caption about being grumpy)

Instead, I will post something to display my recent bout of awesomeness.



In the two and a half weeks I've been out of the running game, I've been nursing my wounds by developing an addiction to claiming QOMs, or Queen of the Mountains. These are titles given to a woman who is able to complete a segment (or an interval determined by other Strava users) faster than any other woman who has completed that segment.

These running legs are good for making a strong climber.

My husband, who would rather be on his bike than doing anything else, is so tickled that I've started riding again. I accused him of praying for my injury just so I would get back into cycling. When he denied any delight in my inability to run, I said, "Good. So you won't be bothered when I stop riding my bike when I'm all healed," he threatened to create a training plan for me to ensure I'd over train and re-injure myself. It sounds a lot more malicious when you didn't see the tears well up in his eyes out of pure joy that I was riding a bike with him. Silly man-boy.

So hopefully I can be out, tearing up the roads with my feet on the pavement soon. Until then, though, I'll enjoy the crowns I'm collecting-- that is, until someone who actually rides competitively starts uploading her stuff to Strava.

Proud Mommy Moment

True story:

The toddler grabbed my Oakleys, and after putting them on, he said, "Going running, Mommy. See you later."

Totally counteracts the incident at the Nature Center when the large macaw squawked loudly, and the toddler walked away, shaking his head, saying, "Frickin' A, bird."

Right?

A Dose Of Reality

After writing my last post, I continued reading Train Like A Mother, which is a fantastic read. It was going through various training plans, which I grumpily skipped through, knowing full well that I wouldn't be participating in any of them any time soon. Then came the section about injury-- and suddenly the text had my full attention. I wanted it so desperately to tell me some magic formula to calculate exactly when I would be able to start running again, but instead, it told me what I already knew-- rest, ice, and just wait it out.

Ugh.

It also said something I hadn't really considered. Training and racing through an injury could result in months of recovery, rather than a couple weeks, after a big race. As frustrating as sitting and waiting is, attempting to race with my injury could sideline me long term.

Frustrated but resigned, I told the husband my decision: I'm going to wait to do my first marathon.

My husband then responded with something I hadn't thought of, but definitely confirmed my decision.

You could do the race, but you'd be doing it knowing that you weren't able to train fully for it. Then you'd always be wondering "what if?", and you could never be satisfied with the time in which you finished. 

I got so many supportive comments from people I didn't even know read my blog, telling me to do the race, and just race to finish. I'll be so proud of myself for completing the race, and will be filled with so many good feelings. Ideally, this would be the case. Unfortunately, I hold myself to a (sometimes impossibly) high standard, and I know that completing a marathon would not be enough. I could run a marathon (well, once the injury heals), just like I was in good enough shape where I would have been comfortable if someone said, "Hey, we signed you up for a half Ironman next weekend... you down?". But just finishing something isn't enough for me. I need to know that I left my heart and soul on the pavement of that race. And being sidelined during peak training prior to a marathon does not allow me to do that.

So now I'm attempting something that I read from Train Like A Mother... pilates. It's odd going from feeling exhausted and sweaty from a workout to feeling like I burned a grand total of four calories in the hour (I'm going to find a different DVD, methinks)... but I know it's for the greater good.

It's for the greater good. Right?

Hopefully this mentality will stop me from cursing people I see out running lately. Apparently if I'm injured, my knee jerk reaction is EVERYONE ELSE SHOULD BE INJURED, CONFLABIT!

I'm working on it. I think I'm nicer when I'm running.

Undecided.

As I write, the front door is open, and a sweet, fall breeze is blowing into my home. The weather is cooling, the leaves are beginning to fall, and the scent of my favorite season is whispering its arrival. While the presence of Halloween decor on the store shelves and the anticipation of pumpkin patch visits usually sends me into a flutter of excitement, I suddenly feel like it is a cruel, miniature bully on the playground, throwing sand in my face and telling me I can't have a turn at four square.

Last week I did something I haven't done in a long, long time-- I logged zero running miles. The resting was meant to encourage my IT band to heal, but as I sit, I still feel the twinges of pain and the buildup of serotonin blockers as a result of my antidepressant being removed from my life. Fitness was not completely removed-- I still logged 80 miles on the bike, and was able to claim a couple Queen of the Mountains on Strava. But even with the exercise component still a part of my life, the absence of running felt like part of me was missing.

I thought about a survey I read in one of my running books. They asked how running made the person feel. "Running makes me feel _____." I thought about the opposite: "NOT running makes me feel _____."

Like a fraud.

This seems a bit like a hyperbole gone horribly awry. What's the big deal, really? I'm still exercising. I'm still maintaining my health. And once my IT band is healed, I can head out to the road and run my little heart out (only smarter this time to avoid injury).

But here's the thing. Today, September 10th, is the last day to register for the Kansas City Marathon before there's a fee increase. And we aren't in a position where we can afford for me to race at the increased price, but we also aren't in a place to register for a race that I won't end up being able to do.

So I'm stuck. I've got until midnight tonight to decide if I believe my IT band will heal enough in time for me to get enough training in to accomplish my goal of a sub 4 hour marathon. Add to that a week of not running and feeling really down on myself, I feel like I'm being absorbed into a giant vacuum of gloom and doom.

I wish it were just a marathon. It's just another race, and I can always sign up to do a different one later. But here's the thing-- Not to get all personal on the blogosphere, but I've been going through a (lot) bit in the past year-- a lot of personal stuff that I won't spew out into the internet world of pseudo-anonymity-- that I felt like was going to be the end of me. Super dramatic, right? But emotionally, I was in that place. And the thought of doing the marathon-- the Kansas City Marathon, where my long distance running really started a few years ago when I did my first half-- was my trophy. My reward, my reminder, that I can do hard things. That I can make it through the suck. That not only can I finish a marathon, survive a marathon, but I can thrive and do it in a time I can be really proud of.

Instead, I'm wondering if I'll even be able to run at all while the leaves are changing, while the air is cooling, and it's turning into those days where you can run at any time without fear of dying of heat stroke. Those perfect weeks in Kansas when you forget how twisted Mother Nature's sense of humor is.

So do I register? Do I have faith that I can heal, and I'll still be able to make a time that seems worth the race fee? Or do I suck up my pride, let it go, and spend a little while rocking myself in the fetal position while consuming copious amounts of chocolate?

I promise I'll be bouncier when I can run again. That should be incentive enough for anyone reading this to send happy healing vibes in the direction of my IT band.

The one where my cute husband runs a trail race.

We used to live in Utah. One of my biggest regrets is that we did not fully take advantage of what was offered there. Sure, we camped and hiked and all that jazz. But trail running? Real, nitty gritty mountain biking? Didn't happen.

Upon our return to Kansas, we both got more serious about our activity level. We got more competitive. We trained harder. We wanted to be examples to our children of how fitness can be fun and rewarding. Recently, we were awarded a sponsorship from our local running store, and the husband took advantage of the sponsorship to purchase some trail shoes.

He was so excited.

I love the idea of trail running, but with how many runs I do with the kids, and the lack of trail near our house (unlike Utah, where we would walk out our front door and get to a trail head up a mountain literally two blocks away-- oh, how I miss it!), I've opted to refrain and stick to paved stuff. So after going on a couple trail runs, he eagerly signed up for a trail race.

I brought the kids, and we excitedly showed Daddy off at the start. The race was eight miles, and we were told that we could catch them at one of the loops if we headed down a road near the start and parked our bums by the lake. Turns out, my husband is a bit too fast, and my pace is a bit too slow when I have a toddler walking with me, so we JUST missed him. Instead, we played by the lake, and the toddler climbed and the infant put inappropriate things in his mouth.

After what we thought was an hour, we headed up to the start. We were told the finish was the same place at the start, and when we arrived, there was no one there! Just porta-potties. Hmm... so a gal walked out of the John, and said she was going to head down the road and see if the finish was there. As we walked, up ahead was the husband, tired and sweaty. We missed his finish! We were and adorable, but slightly inadequate cheering squad. Ah, well. The husband made top ten (top nine if you take out the dog-- As the husband said, "It was a sled dog! That isn't even fair!"), and was going on about how much he loved trail running.



That afternoon, though, I got a text message.

"My clothes are full of ticks."

Hoo, boy. The past few days, the husband has been nursing lots of itchy bites from seed ticks. Who knew Benadryl would be part of a recovery regime from a race?

Sidelined.

Friday rolled around, and it was time to make arrangements for the long run. I knew I needed to get in 20 miles, and having taken a couple of rest days, I hoped my IT band would tolerate it. The husband had signed up for a trail race he had to be at by 8:00, so I knew the 20 miles had to start at 5.

I contacted my running friends. 5 a.m. was too early for their schedule, so I knew I'd go it alone.

This wasn't a big deal. I ran my 18 mile long run by myself, and had a beautiful loop to do it around. However, I've become more anxious about running alone in the dark, so I decided to do the first part of my run on the treadmill, and then finish outside when there was daylight.

Saturday morning, the alarm went off. I got dressed, grabbed my water bottles and my ipod, and headed out to the treadmill in my garage. I set up a fan for the illusion that I was actually moving rather than running in place, and started my run. I went through one podcast, and it was about all I could do to keep going. It was torturous-- after having spent years running on a treadmill or elliptical as I was in the throes of an eating disorder, I thought this wouldn't be a big deal. But I found myself instead glaring at the time ticking by, thinking, "Surely the sun has come up by now." I'd hop off, run to the garage door and peer out, only to be heartbroken by the pitch blackness that could have screamed "It's midnight!"

This happened several times between mile 5 and mile 7. After mile 7, though, I hopped off to check for daylight again, and found that I could barely walk.

My IT band was angry. Very angry.

In tears, I went inside and woke my sleeping husband. This was very selfish of me, because I know how nervous he gets before a race, and waking him up made it certain he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. I was a wreck, though.

I'm not going to be able to train. I'm not going to be able to get my goal time-- I don't know if I can even race! I wanted to do this for me, to prove to myself that I can do hard things, I can get through the crappy stuff. And here I am, sidelined, and it's totally out of my control. I'm so disappointed.

I cried into my husband's chest. The patient, sleep deprived husband of mine hugged me and said, "It's not out of your control. You're overdoing it. This is your body's way of saying you need to take a break. Spend some time training on the bike, and give your IT band some time to heal. Give yourself some time to heal."

So the past couple of days, I've been on the bike. I'll keep you posted as to whether it actually does me any good.

The Mom of Mommy Running

Being a Mommy Runner is a badge of honor. It shows the world that on top of being nurturer, nanny, maid, master of budgets and grocery lists, accountant, teacher, therapist, doctor, and diplomat, I am also an athlete. I may have only gotten four hours of sleep last night between the night terrors and the infant's growth spurt, but I am still out there with the double jogger, sweating profusely, and trying to hand off the pacifier, sippy cup, crackers, fruit twists, and toys without interrupting my pace.

Really, rather than a badge, it should be more of a cape. It takes some serious super-human skill.

But sometimes the super-human skill is necessary to overcome some of the Mommy-ness of it all. The husband (the Exercise Scientist) has been on my case for a while about the importance of stretching. Ha! I would laugh, imagining how my run usually pans out with the two small humans. Without fail, if either of them falls asleep while out on the run, the sound of the front gate opening as we approach the house immediately awakens them. If for some odd reason (in extremely, extremely rare instances) they do not wake up from the gate, one of the three over protective canines flipping out at the sound of people approaching their territory will cause the little ones to stir into consciousness. This results in at least one of the following:

1. Screaming to be nursed
2. Screaming to be held
3. Screaming for "Shoes OFF! Shoes OFF!"
4. Insistence that the infant join the toddler in the sandbox in the front yard
5. Screaming for "chocolate nook" (translation: Pediasure for the wasting away toddler who refuses to eat real food)

Meanwhile, I may enter the house to an array of welcomings, including

1. The puppy having peed on the floor
2. The older dogs have knocked something off the table, making a mess of glass and cutlery
3. The puppy having chewed something up that was probably really valuable, and probably something the husband asked me to make sure was put away before leaving the puppy unattended

Wash, rinse, repeat any combination of the above. Usually if we're expected to be somewhere soon after the run, it's all of the above.

So not to ignore the lectures from the husband, but the possibility of stretching after the run has simply been nonexistent. The transition from The Run to The Rest of My Day is so miniscule that there is no allotment for cool-down or tending to the wounded ligaments and tired muscles of my overworked body.

If I were truly super-human, it wouldn't matter. Alas, here I am, in the midst of the speed-work section of my marathon prep, and I am down for the count, nursing an overworked, over-inflamed IT band. I'm walking like a wounded member of the geriatric crowd, and the glaring workouts scream at me from my training plan with no attention or reprieve. My very anal type A running personality is not coping well with all of this.

So I take comfort in, "It's better to get to race day under-trained than over-trained and injured." We'll hope that's the case.

Meanwhile, I'm going to have to figure out how to get the stretching in. Otherwise, my IT band may revolt and draw inappropriate things on me with sharpie while I sleep.

Feeling Comfortable.

(Real conversation with the husband)

Me: (Calling from the shower) So I heard something interesting on a podcast where they interviewed an OB-GYN mommy runner about shaving your bikini line.

Husband: (Wanders into the bathroom) Oh, yeah?

Me: Yeah. They said not to shave it.

Husband: Really? Does it prevent chafing or something?

Me: No-- the razor is supposed to cause micro-abrasions, and when you run, the sweat and fluids can get into the micro-abrasions and cause really bad infections.

Husband: Wow. This is a little too sexy for me.


Later he muttered something about becoming a wildebeest-woman. I'll assume it was complimentary.

We interrupt your daily programming....

The Clymb has Road ID for a great deal. I'm insanely passionate about this product-- working as a therapist, I know the inconceivable can happen to anyone, and having all of your important contact information easily accessible for any rescue workers should something happen to you could mean more than you can imagine. So please-- head on over to The Clymb and pick one up.

http://www.theclymb.com/invite-from/rbrigman84

I hope it's something you'll never, ever need to use. But I'll be so glad you have if it you ever do.

Be safe out there.

An Open Letter to Motorists with Complete Disregard for Crosswalks

First of all, let me start this by saying, I’ve been there. There’s that important meeting/appointment/errand where if you do not get there on time, you’ll be fired/rescheduled/killed immediately, and you were walking out the door with minutes to spare, and realized your child has a fecal-filled diaper/the dog needs let out/you need to print off the coupon/you forgot to put on clothing, so you get out the door a second time with exactly three minutes to get to the desired establishment that is fifteen miles away. You spend the entire drive simultaneously praying to God and swearing at every moving object that looks as if it might threaten your record-breaking travel time, sweating bullets as your stomach turns in knots at the potential consequences of your tardiness.

Yeah. I’ve been there.

There is a time, though, when the stress of getting to your particular destination becomes an issue that affects others more than the occasional bird you might flip at the person who honked at you for cutting them off.

No. The issue spreads more when you approach crosswalks.

You know, crosswalks? Those designated spaces that lie perpendicular to the direction of traffic that allow pedestrians to also get from point A to point B? Usually they have a large yellow sign to accompany them, or perhaps a stop light. I feel it necessary to identify what these are and what they do, because it seems you choose to ignore them. 

I recognize fully that we live in a day and age where no one walks. We are not a physically active society anymore. It is easy to become lazy, complacent, and simply assume that you can blow through the painted white lines to see if there is any oncoming traffic before you make your right turn. 

I can also understand a little bit more when I’m running solo. Sure, I’ve usually got a bright pink running top on, and my shoes are screaming yellow, but it’s the summer. I could be a large, obnoxious flower. However, the blatant disregard for human life is a little more enraging when I am also accompanied by a bright yellow double jogger the size of a Buick containing my two freakishly adorable children. 

Seriously. The thing is a boat. I have a slightly inappropriate love for BOB and the strollers they create, but they aren’t so good that they make their strollers magically inconspicuous when they’re hauling two children.

So when you are in your mad dash to get your hair did, take a pause before blowing through that stop sign to ensure you aren’t about to bulldoze a Mommy Running with her tiny, adorable children. They’re learning the awesomeness of being physically active. Don’t also teach them that you’re a negligent turd.

Wherein I discover how the Running Gods laugh at those doing speedwork.

I don't like speed work.

Perhaps that's an obvious statement. Something that can be generalized to the entire population of the universe. Wait... you mean, you don't like running when it requires you to move faster than a pace that is comfortable? You don't like feeling like you're going to puke for four minutes straight? What's up with that?

I do feel that speed work does one thing that I enjoy-- I come to really, REALLY like the quarter mile recovery spurts.

This particular training day was a poorly planned one. A friend of ours from Utah that we hadn't seen in four years became a pilot, and he had a layover in Kansas City for a day. We went out, ate too much not-good-for-you-food (mmm, Kansas City barbeque), stayed out way too late, and then drove the hour back to our little college town with our two unconscious children. Getting up early to beat the heat of the day was not on our agenda, so we headed out to do our intervals in the blazing sun on the flattest road with absolutely no shade.

We were setting ourselves up for success, if you didn't notice.

Then something glorious happened. In the midst of near vomit-ude, something shiny caught the glaring sunlight. I glanced down and saw it...a QUARTER.

Jackpot!

I love finding money when I run. It's usually just a penny, but regardless-- I feel it totally makes me a professional runner for that training run.

And then, the running gods had a good laugh.

The quarter that was lifting my spirits and making the speed workout feel totally worth it (Yes, I'm cheap/easily pleased)? STUCK IN THE MELTED ASPHALT FROM THE FLIPPIN' BLAZING SUN.

Cue the sound of a Running Mommy's heart breaking.

Ah, well. At least it wasn't a baby opossum.

The one where I will never/always listen to my husband.

Twenty miles.

There was a time in my life when someone suggested that I may, someday, run twenty miles.

I laughed at him.

But there it was, staring at me. The big Two-Oh on my training plan.

The number had become less daunting with my completion of the 18 mile run just a few weeks prior. Something in me must have felt unsettled, though, because my dollar tacos consumed with the in-laws ended up in the grass next to our driveway the night before the long run.

Shaking and dazed, I would not be deterred. I gathered my belongings necessary for the run in the morning. The plan was to go out the door in time to run 5.5 miles to a coffee shop to meet up with a women's running group at six, do eight miles with them, and then run the rest of the way back and around my house.

Perhaps it was the sudden loss of electrolytes/dinner, but my head was not computing anything.

Me: "If I leave at five, I should be okay, right?"

Husband: "FIVE?! You could leave at 5:15 easy!"

Me: "It's all uphill, though. You think 45 minutes is enough time to get there?"

Husband: "Oh, yeah. If it takes you longer than that, you've got problems."

Super supportive, that one.

Without another thought, I set my alarm accordingly. I was up and ready to go, and actually had a few minutes to spare when I realized I couldn't find my pepper spray. With no light in sight for another hour, I was not about to go without some means of protection.

When it was finally located (in the double jogger from a run earlier that week), I went out the door at 5:16.

I was cruising. Living in a less savory side of town quickened my pace a bit, all the while telling myself that as soon as I got to the downtown area (read: street lights), I could slow down a bit and actually warm up.

Then I realized what my situation was.

Forty-four minutes. Five and a half miles.

That's an eight minute pace.

With no warm up.

I am by no means a fast runner, but I feel like I can pick it up when necessary (my 5k PR is 22:39). So an eight minute pace is not absurd.

But there was no warm up. And it was all uphill.

Curses, husband!

The temperature was on my side. Traffic was minimal at that time of the morning. And though I was fuming the entire time, I actually made it to the running group on time. And then, with such a stellar warm-up (starting my longest run ever with a 5.5 mile tempo run), I managed to run the entire 20 miles at almost goal pace.

And until 18.5 miles, I felt awesome.

So, husband. Thank you for your misguidance. I'll save that Garmin read-out forever.

Or, until, you know... I'm so freakishly fast that an 8:38 pace for 20 miles is embarrassing. 

Okay. Or forever. 

Run through the suck.

Sometimes life hands you lemons.

Then you grab your running shoes.

As a trained therapist, I have found myself saying countless times that someone should consider talking to a professional about whatever it is that emotionally ails them.

As an individual without insurance, I have found myself spending a lot of time tapping out the pavement at paces that are a bit faster than when I'm in a good mood and things are going hunky dory.

There is something exceptionally liberating about doing a power air guitar to an angry girl song while running a sub-eight minute pace that seems to shove those burdens back to the front door mat you stepped on while leaving for your run. Catharsis is running so hard in a run with all of the yuck running in your head that you keel over, not knowing if you have the energy to puke or cry, and feeling too exhausted to fight whichever comes.

Recently I bought a new pair of running shoes. I was a little taken aback-- I just got my last pair at the end of March. That's ridiculous! One pair of shoes run to pieces in just four and a half months?!

Then I did the math. Four and a half months worth of weekly therapy sessions, monthly refills of antidepressants, and countless pounds of chocolate > the cost of a pair of running shoes. 



I am so grateful that running has become something that saves me from myself, rather than a means of punishment.

Lately, I've been running through the suck. Chasing the catharsis. And God knows-- that's the reason for the cooler weather. You didn't know? It's all been for me. /narcissism

Toddler Running Terminology

One of the reasons I run is so my kids can see me being active, and hopefully they'll develop a healthy attitude about fitness and exercise. With their daddy in Exercise Science and hopefully going to graduate school to study childhood obesity, it's important to us to instill a strong desire to be physically healthy.

It warms my heart to no end that my son has developed a vocabulary that is a little peculiar compared to the average two-year-old.

"Mommy running?"

"Mommy running shoes."

"Mommy running glasses!"

"Run fast, Mama!"

"Mommy, watch this-- Running!"

"Running stroller!"

"Mommy running? Me running too!"

"Mommy protein?" (Pointing at my protein shake)

He asks to go running. He asks for some protein shake. Just the other day, he went over to the corner of our living room with our free weights and started doing squat repeats, and said, "Exercise!"

I feel like we're doing well in our quest.

Now if we could just be that successful in potty training.

Firsts.

Last Saturday, I did something I don't usually do.

I ignored my training plan.

Running was starting to feel icky. I didn't look forward to it. The runs were something that I just had to check off the to-do list, rather than act as the stress release they usually are. My body was angry with me for putting in so many miles without taking an adequate break.

So rather than doing my 12-14 mile run, I slept in.

And it was fantastic.

I got to Monday with a renewed vigor for running. My pace was awesome. My attitude improved. My calves felt like they were made of some crazy silk/iron combination that made me invincible and uncatchable. Wednesday rolled around, and we found out we were accepted onto the local running store's team. I was on running cloud nine.

Saturday morning, I chatted with a running friend to get out at 5 a.m. for a 17 miler.

Four a.m. Saturday morning, the seven month old woke up for a nursing fest. He did not want to go down, so I snuggled with him, then wide awake. Well, delightful, I thought-- I'll be able to go running in an hour easy-peasy.

Then something happened. My stomach tightened into knots. My chest felt like it was closing up. I got the very distinct feeling-- "Don't go."

A prayer later, it was very definite-- I wasn't supposed to go running that morning.

I called my friend at 4:25 and told her that I was bailing. She was very gracious in not making me feel like a total boob.

I was still wide awake, but laid back down and eventually went back to sleep. The husband left for a bike ride at 8 a.m., and returned at 10. It was still beautiful outside, so I told him I'd do my long run then. It was 70 degrees, sunny, and delightful. I was excited to be running in the daylight with a lessened fear of skunk attacks.

The workout was to be the following-- 5-7 miles warmup, 5 miles at goal pace, and then 4-5 miles cool down. My plan was to do the longest run, and the route was beautiful. I tried to pace my water so I was hydrated without running out. Seven miles in, I kicked it up to my goal pace, and discovered that seven miles into this particular route was the start of a four mile stretch of rolling hills. Good training for the hilly marathon, I thought.

A mile into goal pace, I was out of the water in the bottle that was supposed to last me to mile ten. The sun was blasting, and I was very, very warm. The scenic route lacked something very important: Shade.

The next mile in, I kept checking my garmin, cursing myself, and picking up the pace. A few moments, I'd look back down, curse myself again, and try to pick up the pace again. The rolling hills were killing me in the heat.

At the ninth mile, I threw the training plan out the window and decided just to get the miles in. Goal pace be darned-- it wouldn't be this hot in October.

After a quarter mile of that attitude, I realized I was out of water. The nearest establishment where I could refill was six miles away.

So I did something I never thought I'd do.

I called the husband.

"I'm pooping out. Please come pick me up."

I felt extremely defeated. I didn't do my long run the week before, and this long run was cut down to a lousy short training run.

Then I called my sister and told her how I felt like a failure.

Her response?

"Well, you should feel like a failure. I ran twenty miles this morning. In an hour. I should be in the Olympics, but I would do so well in every single event that it would just make everyone else feel bad. So I won't bother."

Love her.

Sometimes it's hard to focus on the things I'm doing-- I ran nine and a half miles in the blasted heat! -- because I'm too focused on what I'm not doing-- completing my training as outlined on a silly pdf file.

What else did I do? I avoided destroying my body and making this week of running miserable. So points for that, eh?

What the Yuck?

(True conversation with the husband)

Me: I think I'm going to write about thimples.

Husband: Thimples?

Me: You know, pimples on your thighs. I've been getting them since I've been running more. It's obnoxious-- you run 30+ miles a week and you hope you'll look awesome in a swimsuit, and then you've got these nasty pus bumps all over your legs, and it's highlighted by the pasty whiteness of your upper thighs from your running shorts.

Husband: That's disgusting. Who wants to read about that?

Me: I've read plenty of blogs about bacne, athlete's foot, and toe nails falling off. No one has explored thimples, though.

Husband: So what happens when you find out you're the only one that gets them?

(Crickets)

Me: Uhhhh....

Running Mommy Conversations

There are various ways you can tell you are a Mommy Running. It takes you a half hour to get out the door, and even when you are out on the road ready to go, you realize you forgot the goldfish crackers/pacifier/the OTHER sippy cup/wipes/etc and have to turn your monstrous double stroller back to get it (because you know without a doubt that if you don’t have it, there will be a meltdown when you are no less than four miles from your home and your kid needs. It. NOW!), diaper changes/roadside nursing has to be accounted for when calculating your average pace, and your traps are as toned as your hamstrings from pushing the double stroller.

The list can go on for days, but there was one thing in particular I noticed when doing interval training with the husband pushing the double stroller. Watching the Olympics, I was in awe of the women’s marathon, failing to even wrap my head around what it would take to be able to maintain that speed for that long. I’m lucky if I can even work up to that speed during my sprint, much less hold it for two hours and twenty minutes. But while my mind lingered on the inspiration these women provide, a small voice brought me back to my reality.

“Mommy! Puppy!”

Yes, sweetheart. There is a puppy over there.

“Mili puppy, too?” (Mili is a puppy too? I’m fluent in two year old. At least, my two year old.)

Yes, sweetheart. Mili is a puppy too.

“Garmin puppy too?”

Yes. Garmin is a puppy too.

“Peli puppy too?”

Yes, sweetheart. Very good.

Meanwhile, I’m churning out the first of six speed intervals, pushing my legs as hard as they will hold me for a half mile. That’s a different, twisted kind of endurance required to have the conversations tiny humans desire right at those moments. That isn’t to suggest the likes of those Olympians could not do the same thing at the pace I was running (I’m pretty sure Kara Goucher naps at the pace I was running today), but perhaps there should be consideration for a future Olympic event—distance running with toddlers in tow. Who can maintain and entertain a two year old while attempting not to vomit on the side of the road from running too fast when it is too hot without any shade?

I’m going for gold.

Double Dipping

The husband and I recently applied to be sponsored by our local running store. We received an email today saying we were "highly recommended" by the staff there (love, love, love them!), and she was requesting a brief biography of how we got into running, and what our favorite races were. Here was my response:

GGRT Running Captain,

I am so grateful for even the possibility of running for Gary Gribbles Running Team, and am so humbled that we came with recommendations from the staff. The people there have been so incredibly wonderful to us—especially considering we are a young married couple still going through school with two kids, so we certainly don’t contribute significantly to the sales (though, trust me—we would LOVE to contribute much, much more!). When we walk in and someone starts talking to my two-year-old and calls him by name, I count my blessings that we have such a great local running store so close to us. 

I started running for the same reason I think a lot of women start running—to lose weight. There wasn’t any particular joy in it. Running was simply a means of punishment for whatever I shouldn’t have eaten the day before. This mentality went on for years, and while it became enjoyable more as I became fit, the motivation was never to run for the love of running. Instead, it was a constant reminder of how inadequate I felt in all areas of my life. 

The shift happened on a cool September night in 2006. I remember sitting on my couch with a bowl of mixed nuts in my lap, watching some trashy celebrity gossip show, when my phone rang. My best friend was calling to tell me that one of our dear friends had passed away in a car accident. I fell to the floor, pounding it with my fist in anger, sobs wracking through my body. When I looked up, I saw my running shoes by the door, and without thinking, put them on and went out into the night. It was late, and I knew no one in their right mind should be running at that hour, but logic and reason were beyond me. My feet pounded the sidewalk, carrying me to a pace that would force the shattered cries into a regulated breath. I ran until my lungs burned more than my heart ached, and until my legs screamed louder than the fury in my head. In those moments of unbearable loss, something in me changed. I was no longer someone who runs—I was a runner. 

Since then, I met my husband, got married, graduated college, got my Master’s degree, and have had two children. I have worked in domestic violence and mental health centers, watched friends experience horrific trials, supported family through various transitions, and experienced countless personal disappointments. Sanity always seemed to be a good run away. Through all of my experiences, reflection on what periods were the most difficult were the times I could not run due to my stage of pregnancy. 

Running has become a means of keeping my world from standing still, whether it is through processing grief or breaking up the mundane. As a stay-at-home mom, my days are filled with bath time, naps, convincing the two year old to eat, and attempting to prevent the seven month old from eating things he shouldn’t.  Running helps me to remember that I am a person, and I have been so grateful for the example it has set for my children. My two-year-old now sees my shoes and says, “Mommy running shoes?” I’ll put on my Oakleys, and he’ll say, “Mommy running glasses?” Just this morning we went on a family run with interval training, with the husband pushing the double jogging stroller, and as we finished at the park, my two-year-old informed us that our training was a “good time.” My hope is that our activity level will carry on, and my children will view fitness as an opportunity rather than a punishment.

You asked about favorite local races, and that question is difficult for me to answer, simply because each race has held such different kinds of goodness that it is hard to pick just one. The Waddell and Reed Half Marathon was amazing because it was so scenic. Descending and then turning onto a road draped with old growth trees was so breathtaking, that for a moment I simply forgot that I was exerting myself at all. The Olathe Half Marathon was wonderful because it was the first long distance I raced by myself, and truly felt like it was something I was doing for me. It was also great because I managed to get a new PR out of it. The Williams Syndrome 5k was a fantastic ego boost, mostly because it was a smaller race so I was able to take second for women overall. It was also great because my husband’s family came out to participate in the Williams Syndrome Walk, and saw the entire race beforehand. His grandmother was on the phone with everyone she knew afterward, telling them how I’d taken second “in a marathon!” God bless her. The Kansas City Temple 5k Run was such a representation of how far I’ve come in my running—I wanted the medal so badly because I knew it had the temple on it. I’d looked at the results from the year before, and figured that getting a sub 23 would put me on the podium. I had never run a sub 23:00 5k, but I was so set on bringing home one of those medals. I pushed myself to the point of nearly getting sick, and managed to cross the line at 22:39, enough to get second for my age group. I am so, so proud of that medal.

This was probably a wordier response than you were looking for, and I apologize. I have a tendency to get that way. In short, I’m a 26 year old wife, mother of two, social worker by training and mom by profession. And I run to make sure I can do all the other stuff.

Thanks, GGRT Running Captain. 

A Mommy Running

Fingers crossed we get the sponsorship. That would be eight shades of amazing.

A Story Behind Mommy Running?

It was a hot day. A ridiculously hot day. Unfortunately, around these parts, that does not narrow down the day, because it seems Kansas is taking the cake for absurdly hot summers. I grew up here, and I do not remember summers being as hot as the past three have been. Insert some argument about global warming/climate change here. Regardless of the reasoning behind it, I'm sure it's one of the ways God is telling us to hurry up and get the husband through graduate school so we can get the poo out of here.

Anyhoo, on this particularly hot day, I started with my usual routine of making whole wheat blender pancakes. These pancakes are seriously the most delicious pancakes you could imagine-- and I don't use a recipe. I did at one point, but now I'm lazy-- but I'll attempt to post it anyway.

1.5 cups whole wheat berries
2 cups milk (We use whole, because we're awesome.)

Throw in blender- blend for five-ish minutes.

Then, while it's still blending, I throw in:
1 t baking soda
5 t baking powder
1/3 C oil (We use coconut, because we're awesome.)
Dash of sugar (varies depending on my stress level)
Dash of salt (to taste-- husband likes a little more, I don't really notice if I forget it)
Splash of vanilla (I go crazy heavy with this stuff)
Optional: a few eggs (we forgot them once, and the pancakes turned out fantastically still-- so we usually fry them up on the side instead)

Blend thoroughly. Add some raw oatmeal if you want it a little chunky (husband likes this). Cook on a griddle. Bow down and offer gratitude for the goodness I have just shared with you. 

These are wonderful. And addictive. So on this particular morning, I ate about six pancakes that were each the size of my face, justifying it as carb loading before my five mile run. A few minutes after the last bite, I stashed the kids in the stroller and headed out the door.

The path I chose was one that essentially guaranteed we would see no cars-- a plus when pushing a couple children. It also is good for when the infant screams for the first two miles, because there are fewer people giving you dirty looks and judging your ability to parent your offspring. Speaking of which-- how the devil do I produce two children, with one BEGGING me to go running, and the second screaming his head off like I'm torturing him? He's gotten a bit better, but good grief.

Anyway, I pay dearly for the lack of automobiles. This particular route also is in blasting sunlight with about two square feet of shade the entire route.

No big deal... because I'm awesome, remember?

Except the plan was thwarted. The young child started screaming, and I decided to do the four mile route, only much faster than I had initially planned. I had to get the kid home-- the screaming was frying my nerves. I also felt awful for him, and prayed that he would eventually get to where he enjoyed being in the stroller. As I pushed the pace in the obscene heat, I felt the pancake stack churning in my stomach.

About a mile and a half from home, I pull the stroller to the grass on the side of the road, and was sick.

Feeling woozy, I weakly pushed the stroller back to the pavement. The last bit of my run was to the chorus of my two year old chanting,

"Mommy pee-yook? Mommy pee-yook?"

Yes. Mommy pee-yooked. Thanks, son.