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.

Nature calling.

Growing up, it was rare when a kind word was exchanged amongst the members of the household. It wasn’t necessarily that we were a spiteful, vindictive people—it just simply was not something that came naturally to us. As a result, I’ve become over complimentary to my children, which may explain why their heads are so large (the seven month old was just clocked in at the >97 percentile at the doctor yesterday for head circumference). In turn, I’ve also discovered my own love language is Words of Affirmation.

As a woman, this is a terrible scenario. The world is constantly bombarding me with words of criticism, and for 23 hours of the day, I succumb and also participate in this conversation, critiquing every action and aspect of my being. 

But for one hour a day, four to five days a week, I’ve gotten pretty good at speaking my love language.

“You are ROCKING this pace!”

“That was a good warm-up. Now you can really pick it up! You’ve got the strength for it!”

“Holy smokes! Look at how far you’ve gone—and still churning out a couple more miles!”

“Did you notice how amazing your arms look from pushing that stroller? Bow chicka bow wow!”

Et cetera.

It is a good thing I have that hour, because then I return home and become a sloppy mother of two small children, constantly wishing I were better and always pushing myself to do more until I am a giant pile of exhaustion. For that one hour, I am on top of the world.

The unfortunate aspect of that hour comes when my body decides to get in on the complimentary action. The comparison for success and accomplishment mentally comes from where I was to where I am, noting improvement and achievement. My body jumps in on the conversation on occasion, though, and it usually goes like this:

Me: “Man, you are rocking those new running shorts you shelled out some very-carefully-budgeted-for-dough on.”

Body: “Yes, you are! And as a reminder of how rocking you are that you’re doing this ALL after having two babies within eighteen months, I’m going to relinquish all control of your bladder into those new, awesome running shorts!”

I cannot fault my body. With all that it has done, and all that I put it through, I am certain that it has only the purest of good intentions. I need to have a conversation with it, though, and discuss how its attempts to uplift and inspire actually causes mass quantities of humility and chafing.

I worry that eventually, it will come to this:

In the meantime, I’ll be over here doing kegals.