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.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Monday, August 13, 2012
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?
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?
Saturday, August 11, 2012
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....
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....
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
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.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
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.
Friday, August 3, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
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.
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