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.