I shit you not, this morning a commercial for laser hair removal made me cry. Not because I have an epic she-beard and I'm sensitive to the topic. Because of one little line in it, which I can't even remember word for word right now. But the gist was this:

Moms, need some time to yourself to recharge? Get laser hair removal.

And I found myself thinking, "If I could afford it, I'd totally get laser hair removal. JUST so I could have an hour of quiet that was all about me."

And then I cried.

And from the backseat, my carpool buddy said to me, "What's wrong mama? Why are you making that sad face?" and I was surprised because, truly, I thought for sure that I was hiding the tears. Stealth, silent, ninja tears like we moms get used to shedding. Tears that release that little bit of frustration or anger or sadness or just plain emotional overwhelmedness without alerting the mini-people that mama is seriously losing her shit.

I did the only thing you can do when caught mid ninja-cry. I played dumb, "What do...um...why do you ask Luca? What face?"

And, in the rearview mirror, her eyes scrunched up empathetically, she nodded her head and tilted it to the side and said, "Oh mama, it's ok to be sad sometimes. We all get frustrated. I know you love me even when you're mad."

The ninja-cry dropped from its perch among the ceiling beams with a HEE-YAAAAAAAA! and became real tears.

Because I lost my patience.

Because I was running late, again.

Because the shoes we just bought her a month ago no longer fit.

Because I would consider a laser 3 cm from my face if it meant an hour of quiet and someone focusing only on making me happy.

"Is it because you're gonna be late for work again? It's ok, mama. Grandma can walk me to school. No one cares if you're late to Kindergarten."

Because she forgot her backpack at Grandma's yesterday and I got mad at her for forgetting.

Because I don't even want to GO to f-in' work.

Because I need a date night with my husband. Preferably one that involves sleeping in the next day.

Because I miss so much, every day.

So I made a decision right there. Late to work be damned, I was going to stop by grandma's for the orphaned backpack, park down the street, and walk my kid to school. I was going to tell her with my words ("Luca, I AM going to be late to work. But you matter more.") and my actions. I was going to hold her hand the whole way from our car to the playground, then watch her run free to give an excited hug to her best school friend. I was going to stand on the edge of the playground watching my kid be a kid and enjoying every second of it.

When the bell rang, I walked with her and two friends over to the morning line up spot. I listened to the girls giggle together and soaked it in. "I love Justin Bieber!" one of her friends announced. "Are you gonna make him fall in love and marry you????" the other girls asked back, in excited little-girl voices full of laughter. "YES!" proclaimed the Future Mrs. Bieber. And they giggled and held hands.

Behind me, as I stood there waiting, I heard one mom say to another, "I saw you the other day! In Scottsdale!" The second mom asked, "Do you work up there?" And the first mom replied, "Oh GOD no! I was on the way to my plastic surgeon!"

And in front of me, three girls slipped pink and purple and sparkle and pony backpacks on little shoulders, giggling together and holding hands. I watched them walk into school and I wish I could say I had some mom-moment epiphany about creating a world where by the time my kid's a mom herself there aren't moms talking about plastic surgery at kindergarten drop off.

She may not be the boss tha pays my bills, but she looks Boss in that outfit.

But I didn't. Because not every I-had-a-shitty-mom-morning event wraps up neat and tidy, cue audience applause. Because I walked to the car contemplating how I can save every dime between now and whenever and find a way to be home more. Because I imagined a conversation in which I don't cower at the idea of telling my boss I need more flexibility and more time with my kids. Because I need more time with my kids, but damn if I wouldn't let some technician super-analyze my momstache if it meant an hour, just for me.

Learning to Let Them Go.

Last night before bed, Luca picked her outfit for the first day of kindergarten: a brown dress with pink polka dots and her new brown shoes. Rohan asked me to get his orange 'buttons' shirt, and I selected some new khaki shorts to go with it. I packed Luca's lunch, cutting her turkey sandwich ino a star and a letter 'L' and including a strawberry cupcake she chose at the grocery store. I scrawled 'Rohan K' on the inside of an old t-shirt and pair of shorts with a Sharpie and tied them into a bag with his name on the outside. Extra clothes for school, in case he has an accident. Luca's bag was packed with her purple pencil case and a towel for after-lunch rest time. Everything was ready to go.

We took a bath together, the three of us, washing the manes and tails of every My Little Pony in the house and also washing Luca and Rohan's new hairstyles. Hers: bangs. His: short and neat.

Before bed, Luca told me she was worried about kindergarten because even though she can count, "Sometimes I skip a number." I assured her it was ok, and that lots of kids skip numbers and she was goign to school so she could learn how to remember ALL the numbers when she counts. That seemed to satisfy her, and before she rolled over to close her eyes she smiled at me and told me she was excited to start school.

This morning both kids were still sleeping when I got out of bed, so I went and woke them by rubbing their back and telling them it was time for school. Luca jumped out of bed, excited to put on her pretty dress and take her new backpack to class. Mo was a little slower going, telling me several times that he didn't want to go to preschool. I got them downstairs, dressed, and sitting in front of Bubble Guppies so I could finish getting everything ready to go.

The morning was punctuated with Rohan's sadface, as he told me several times he didn't want to go to preschool. I didn't know what to say to him other than to fill him with platitudes about how preschool is super fun and he's going to make a lot of new friends and learn new things. It didn't work. He was curled on the recliner in a ball telling me he didn't want to go. Even Luca chimed in, telling him how she was worried about preschool but it ended up being so fun and she made lots of friends. He still wasn't convinced entirely.

We parked down the street from the elementary school, following a crowd of other parents as they led kids large and small to the playground to line up for their first day. Each of my hands held a tiny hand of one of my children, and if you think for a second I didn't feel the power of that moment you must never have met me.

We got to school a few minutes before the first bell, found the spot where Luca's class lines up in the mornings, and waited. I could tell Luca was nervous, and Rohan could too which made him nervous which in turn made ME nervous and on the verge of tears. We stood together in a cluster eyeing the other kids and their parents. I was trying to guess which kids would be the nicest and hoping my kid would be seated next to them, and Luca was probably admiring all the Hello Kitty backpacks jealously. Her teacher made her rounds, checking to be sure all the right kids were in her line and she knew how they were all to get home every day that week and I tried to look friendly by half-smiling at the other parents while behind my sunglasses my eyes nervously scanned the group of new kids and parents.

I leaned in close to her, feeling very sentimental as every ounce of mama love burned in my throat, and whispered into her cheek, "Luca, I'm so very very proud of you and school is going to be amaz--" and she cut me off. "Mom," she said impatiently, "your breath stinks like coffee." Sentimental moment over.

I wasn't sure how Luca would do when the time came to walk into the school with her class. After two years of preschool this is sort of old hat to her, but it was a different school and this is a new teacher and new classmates and new rules and a new schedule. Leading up to the first week, she was really excited, so we went with that and played up the excitement in the hopes it would pay off the first day. And while she was a bit nervous, clinging to my hand most of the morning, when the time came to kiss her good-bye she was ready to go.

We stood there, Mo and I, watching her walk away from us and into big kid school. She turned several times and waved, blowing kisses as we enthusiastically waved and blew kisses back. I snapped pictures through tears I'd held in until that moment, and as she passed through the doors and disappeared down the hall to her first day of Kindergarten, I turned with Rohan, took 4 steps across the basketball court, and was stopped cold by a wave of heavy tears. Rohan was looking at me sadly, so I scooped him into my arms as I cried, and he burrowed his head under my chin, his right cheek flat against my collarbone and his left arm stretched wide to pull me into a hug.

That moment? I will never forget it. And when I looked down into my son's big blue eyes, he was crying too. We stood there for a moment, holding each other together, then he walked beside me to the car holding my hand the whole way there.

The ride to preschool for Rohan's first day was quiet. My right arm was stretched into the back seat, and he held my right hand in both of his for the whole drive. We got there much too fast and before I knew it I was unbuckling Rohan's carseat and pulling his backpack out to rest it on his shoulders. Thankfully, his hesitation and nerves had calmed some and he didn't try to change my mind about leaving him in preschool that day. Because, I swear, if he'd asked me at that moment to let him stay home one more day I would have burrowed him to me and whisked him home so we could snuggle on the couch together for a whole day.

There wasn't much time for long sentimental good-byes once we got to preschool. Most of the kids were there already and the class was just sitting down for circle time. One of the high schoolers that works in the class came right over and greeted Rohan, taking his hand and leading him to his space on the rug. And suddenly, I had two kids in school. Just like that. Babies, done. Kids, here.

I knew I should leave, but I couldn't. I needed one more hug and kiss from my son. Needed to sniff his skin and feel the softness of his blonde hair and remind him to be good and kind and listen well. So I waited patiently for circle time to end and the kids to go wash their hands and I grabbed him and held him close to me for a kiss. And then, I watched him walk away and join the other kids at the little circular table for snacks.

I walked out alone, sat in my car, and let the tears come. I was crying from pride that a new phase of their lives is starting, and in equal measure from sadness that the last chapter is ending. No longer can I even pretend they are my babies. They are big kids now, with classmates and teachers and lunch bags and friends. They bring home pictures and classwork with their names scrawled across the top. They ask questions such as, "Mama, how does a car turn all the wheels the same at once?" (him) and, "Are whales mammals? Because I know that dolphins are and whales feed their babies milk too."

Learning to let them go and let them grow up is hard for me. I absolutely adore the people they are becoming. I beam at the praise from their teachers. I smile when I hear about new friends and eating in a cafeteria and recess and music class and share day. My throat tightens and my heart feels like it will burst as I witness them growing minute by minute into the little adults they will someday become.

This will be a big year. I'm trusting my kids to teachers and other families and their kids. I'm letting my kids go and grow. And I cannot wait to look back at this time in our lives and remember it sweetness.



Proving It To Myself.

Tomorrow is Pat's Run. I registered for Pat's Run just after I had the Color Run under my belt. I was a C25K graduate and was feeling positive and optimistic. I was running 3 miles in January, so I figured by the middle of April I could pretty easily get up to 4.2.

For the month after the Color Run, I trained. I wasn't quite working the bridge to 10k training I'd hoped to follow, but I was running and it felt good to keep going. And then, late February and early March happened. And it looked like this: DC for work Feb. 24 - 29. Home and hit with a bad cold March 1 - 3. Baltimore for a training March 4-6, still with the cold. That cold hung around for well over 3 weeks, a time during which I did attempt some running unsuccessfully.

And the next thing I knew? It was April and I was 3 weeks out from the run. And wouldn't you know the mere 3 weeks left to train intimidated me straight into inaction. I DID run in April...once? twice? But I most decidedly didn't even come close to prepping to run 4.2 miles. Shoot...at this point I'm not sure I could revisit a 5k successfully.

So back and forth I went in my mind. One day, I was going to buckle down and start waking at 5 am to run. Dammit, I was going to get OUT there, no matter whether I could only put out a mile or I managed more than 3. And then I realized how dark and, well, early 5 am really was. So I thought about going back to nighttime running, but between late bedtimes and nutso work schedules, my plan to have the kids in bed by 8:30 and be out running by 8:40 usually ended up being closer to kids in bed before 9 and me searching for my ear buds still at 9:15. And then I'd get frustrated. And pissed. And I'd be bitter because dammit I know it's important to keep moving. It's good for my body and my mind and my soul. But it felt like I was alone in that belief. Like no one in my family was seeing or appreciating how much I needed to get out there and run. To be fit. To be strong. To train for this race. To be healthy. To not quit, because once you quit going back is the hardest part.

Of course I told my husband this. And, of course, because I am such a passive aggressive asshole sometimes, I let it stew until one day I blew up at him. My alarm went off at 5 and I hit snooze - twice. And he was pissed. Seething. Because as soon as that happened the under-5 set in our house was awake and then HE was awake and meanwhile I'd hit snooze and passed the fuck out. So the next thing I knew he was doing the whole, "If you don't want to get up and run please just shut off your alarm. It goes off two or three times and we're all awake an hour before we need to be!" only when he said it I swore it was something more like, "You lazy fat bastard, if you can't haul your flabby white ass out of this bed to get 20 minute of cardio in the morning you are really a bigger sack of worthless, bloated shit than I'd previously realized and I'm disgusted by you. Pig bitch."

I never claimed not to be defensive and somewhat overly self-critical.

Look, I knew rationally what he meant, but in my head I'd been self loathing and belittling myself for weeks. Talking myself up to get out there and run, and then falling apart. Once even trying to run and feeling my legs turn to cod livers as I stumbled back home, leaned into the side of our van and buried my face in my arms to cry, then calming myself outside for 10 more minutes so my husband wouldn't have to know I'd barely made it around the block. Making deals with myself. Telling myself how great I would feel after. Telling myself how shitty I would feel not-after, if I didn't go. And just generally reconvincing myself of every damn lie I ever told myself about what I am or am not capable of with this awkward, pasty, chubby, pink-ankled, fat thighed body nature chose for mocking me.

And so I might have blown up at him that morning and then felt like shit later. And we might have talked and made up but there, bubbling under the surface was every bit of insecurity and disbelief in myself I'd ever had, like a thousand fucking voices of a thousand girls who are prettier and thinner and just plain better than I am and I could not for the life of me figure out how to shut it all off. I surely didn't just put on my damn running shoes and tough that shit out to push past it. Instead, I burrowed into my home and retreated into my body because I know every lump and bump and unappealing body part well enough to be able to criticize myself without even having the self-respect to put any enthusiasm into it. When you're spent your whole life thinking of a thousand things wrong with your love handles, after all, you're going to one day realize that it doesn't even take any real effort to remember how ugly they are and what a miserable fuck of a human being that makes you, all around.

So then suddenly it was this morning and I walked into my office at work and there was my boss, making a joke about the race shirts for this weekend's race and it hit me that I had managed to completely shut my brain off and pretend that the race isn't this weekend. And if my boss hadn't also registered to run it and had she not mentioned the shirts then said something to the effect of how we (co-worker and I, who registered together) were 'quitters' if we didn't at least go walk it, I might have pranced right through this weekend ignoring Pat's Run facebook posts and letting my mind pretend I forgot. When really...I knew. I knew, you know? I knew.

Being wishy-washy about the whole thing herself, my co-worker sort of had me convinced to skip the run. I mean...who really cared, right? Our money will go to charity no matter what, and why battle traffic and people and logistics just to say we did it if we're not ready and we're not in it, heart and body? Right?

But then, we decided we sort of wanted those silly race shirts and I figured maybe I could just stop and get our packets on the way home and then we could skip it. Right? We could totally skip this thing and who would care anyhow and we might feel guilty but who would care? Really? Who?

------------------------------------------------

She called me as I was driving home from picking up the packets. After a text I sent to her that 99 other people would read as "Convince me I need to run tomorrow and not skip this race seeing as how I'm not properly trained and it's going to be hot!" (because, I mean...that is what it said) and she read it as, "You need to call me now. YOU because YOU are the person I texted because YOU and only YOU will know exactly what my mind and my self esteem and many years of internal voices telling me I can't run unless someone is chasing me and I'm too fat and and and and  is doing to me and YOU can help. Can't you please help?"

So she called and we talked and she let me decide not to run and she didn't judge me and then I was crying. Crying because -fuckall!- who WOULD care is me and why it DOES matter is me too. I am why and I am who and suddenly we were talking about something different. This wasn't about well should I or shouldn't I and can I or not. It wasn't that at all anymore. Suddenly a switch flipped and I realized there was no other option. There was no yes or not there was just the need to do this thing. The need to get out there and suffer. And know I might not run it all...or much of it, even. I won't have a good race time. I won't beat any records or surprise myself with how 4 weeks of utterly and complete sloth status magically transformed me into a natural and gazelle-like runner. And I'm probably going to be pissed at myself and disappointed and THAT IS THE POINT.

That is the point.

The point is to be that. And to experience that. To live it and to remember it and to USE it to motivate me. The point is that I'm probably going to hate parts of tomorrow's run. The parking. The mass of people. The burning lungs at 5 minutes in and the legs on fire at 12. The feeling that I am going to stop running and just trudge myself down into a puddle of sweat and goo and they will find me later, buried under plastic drink cups from the water stations and no one will know I've gone missing anyhow. The finish line, so damn far away and past so many hills and people. I'm going to fail at it all. I am going to hate it and wonder what the hell is wrong with me and wish I was at home in bed or laying on the couch with my kids or any-damn-where but there, in that moment. And I am going to go through that and then on the other side will be...what? A moment of satisfaction? Elation? An epiphany wherein I decide to dedicate my life to running?

Doubtful. On the other side, I think, of tomorrow's run will be this: the knowledge that I didn't prepare and I let my mind psyche my body out and that I did it anyway. That even when I know it's going to be hard and suck and I'm going to dread it, I am the kind of person who does it anyhow.

Because I'm Nothing If Not Determined to Grow

I'm still training for Pat's Run in April. My training has slowed a bit as I've accepted that I don't have to keep track of minutes or miles unless I want to do so. Sometimes, I do. Other times, I don't.

But in addition to that, I'm taking part in a meditation challenge put on by the Chopra Center. It's free podcasts for 21 days, and it's amazing and difficult all at once.

The meditations are guided, meaning a guru of sorts spends a few minutes setting the scene for you, mentally, and then they guide you to meditate on a certain topic while music plays. After a time, they then guide you out of the state of meditation.

Meditation is challening. Quieting my mind can be hard, and once it's cleared staying awake can be even harder.

Tonight, though, it all hit home with this meditation intention:

Go forward with a vibrant, healthy body; a quiet, peaceful mind; and a joyful spirit.

And Then, This.

There's an old saying that goes, "There are few problems so great they cannot be resolved with cuddle puddles, hot chocolate, and stove-popped popcorn."

Ok, fine...I just made that up. So it may not be an 'old' saying, but it's my saying, dammit. And I'm standing behind it 100%. Last week, I needed this kind of healing. It had been a rough day that ended in my crying at the kitchen table while my kids looked on, confused. So when Darrick had to leave to go recruit middle schoolers to his high school's wrestling club, I did the only thing I could think of to help me get through to bedtime while feeling really, uncontrolably emotional.

I found a new kids' movie on the DVR, propped the kids up with pillows, stuffed animals, and a soft blankie, and went into the kitchen to make hot chocolate and popcorn. The hot chocolate was extra chocolately, and the popcorn was a stove-top recipe I've perfected in the past 2 months, lightly salted and delicious. And then I settled into the corner of our big sectional couch with the kids curled beside me, pulled their little table over close so they had somewhere to put their mugs and bowls, and lost myself in the smell of Rohan's scalp and the feel of Luca absent mindedly rubbing her toes against mine under the blanket.

This doesn't mean I was suddenly in a fantastic mood and the world was sunshiney. I wish it was that easy. Instead, last week was spent contemplative, pissed off, sad, confused, and resolute. And I wish I had some amazing explanation for all those feelings that would make sense, but the truth is I don't. I think sometimes we walk dark paths not because there is a lesson to be learned or a metaphor to be gleaned, but because it's part of life to struggle now and then. We don't always understand why we're feeling down or confused or stressed, do we? But at some point, we're coming out the other end of it. And if cuddle puddles and pop corn make it more bearable in the interim, then I'd be a fool to deny myself.

Something happened this week, and I don't know exactly what it was. The anniversary of my dad's illness + my own aging + worries about health + sleeplessness + stress + more and more and more = a shit week with lots of tears and long venting sessions and quiet moments of introspection. And then, suddenly, I was on the other side of it. There was no epiphany. No moment of clarity where I saw the way out of the things I'm feeling stifled by and into a future of bliss and perfection. Not even, sadly, any clear and rational understanding of what the hell was wrong with me and why I was feeling so out of myself. What there was, though, was a feeling of peace at the close of the week. I'm not sure what it all means. I'm not sure what all has changed and what will continue changing. I just know that this week challenged me emotionally in a lot of ways and made me think a lot about myself and the things in my life and how they make me feel. It also gave me pause to remember that how I react  - to people, to feelings, to situations, out loud, in my head - matters.

I'm walking into a new week a bit more introspective than I've allowed of myself recently. I'm trying to let myself just be and think and feel and process whatever comes into my mind. I am trying to open myself up to the possibility that there is a lot of possibility.

And if I get there through cuddle puddles and hot chocolate? All the better.

Where I Am.

This week has been shit.
My spirits are down, I've had more than my share of emotional breakdowns, and I am stuck between allowing myself to wallow in ridiculous time-sucks like self pity and trying to snap out of it already.

I'm ready for the weekend. Ready to throw myself into some of the work we've started that's been on hiatus. Darrick has state wrestling championships this weekend, so in his absence I have some big plans. Taking the kids to the park. Grocery shopping and meal planning. Brainstorming a possible kitchen remodel that would involve moving some counters and creating an island. Finally finishing flooring transitions and caulking the foundation downstairs. Building up the bathroom cabinets to the proper height. Buying paint, choosing tile, and putting greenboard in the shower surround so we can tile the wall.

Look, I know how that sounds. My life is lame, right? My weekend plans include building things and planning meals and paint...and I'm looking forward to these things? What have I become?!?

The truth is, there are some times in my life when I need to bury myself elbow-deep in work. Not the sitting-in-the-office-with-a-to-do-list kind of work, but the there's-paint-in-my-hair-and-stain-on-my-elbows-and-hand-me-the-drill-please work. My husband likes to tease that if he wants a clean kitchen, he just needs to irritate me a bit. And it's true. The monotony of cleaning and cooking and sunshine and hard work soothes my soul. There's something about honest work that gives my brain the freedom to sort through the issues I normally try to stuff behind the couch and ignore. And there's something even better about stepping away from a Saturday of hard work and knowing that my mind is clear and my house looks better.

I've been buried under stress lately, firing off responses to flagged emails 20 minutes after I was supposed to leave the office and crying to Luca's preschool teacher (true - and humiliating - story) and  holding back tears over things that would normally not even phase me. My life is at a weird point right now where I don't feel like I know where I'm headed next. There are big decisions on the horizon for me and for us as a family, and all of them have the potential to be amazing and make our lives even better. Not one of them is bad, but the anxiety of making scary new decisions and the uncertainty over what the right choice is cause me to panic. I want to take a week to lay under a blanket on the couch and watch every sappy romantic comedy and crappy show on my DVR possible. I want to tear out kitchen cabinets and appliances and spend hours sanding and cutting and staining and painting. I don't know what I want.

What I am trying to do is this: channel that mindless distraction that leads to mental clarity and which I now get from things like washing and hanging all the laundry and putting it away in perfect ROYGBIV order into running. Write a to-do list to rival all to-do lists and check off every last item, one by one. Purge and clean and organize, in hopes that organizing my home will lend order to my mind and my life. Save money. Enjoy long mornings at the park, watching my kids hold hands in a sea of other kids. Eat slices of fresh, sweet oranges picked from my mom's orange trees.

My brain is all over the place. This weekend, my goal is direction and clarity. I am going to check off items on my to-do list and find time to make popcorn and hot chocolate and watch movies cuddled under a blanket with my family.

It's Official.

I'm a graduate of Couch to 5K!

The Color Run is this Saturday, which also happens to be my birthday. I'm more than a little nervous and super excited just to do it. And I cannot believe I finished C25K!

Week 9

Tonight marks the start of C25K, Week 9. Also known as the last week. Or, alternately, "Holy crap in less than 2 weeks I need to be able to run 3.1 miles!"

It took some talking-to-myself to get out there tonight and brave a 30 minute run. I know it's only 2 more minutes than I ran all last week, but it seemed big. Monumental. Scary.

At 6 minutes into it, I was feeling good. "Ok, you did that. Now just do it 4 more times." I told myself.

At 12 minutes into it, I was still feeling pretty good. "My legs are burning, but I can do it. 3 more times."

At 18 minutes into it, I was starting to unravel a bit. "Ok, Katie, keep going. It does not matter if you're slow as long as you finish. But why is your butt jiggling so much? Do you feel that?" :::feels with hand and butt is indeed jiggling::: "What the hell? You've been running for 8 weeks and your butt just NOW starts jiggling like that? That's it! No more snacks for you! It's time to buckle down and stick to salads!"

At 24 minutes into it, I just tapped out, mentally. I went to that dark place no one wants to talk about, where the only thing going through my mind was numbers as I counted my foot falls and tried to predict how close I was to done.

At 29 minutes, when the podcast I used this week (which, by the by, I definitely recommend in terms of better music for running, and which came from here) notified me I only had 1 minute left, I was resolved and determined to finish it running. "You can do this. So what if your butt is jiggling and your time probably really super sucks. Just. Finish."

At 30 minutes, when I stopped running and started my cool down walk, I took back all the promises of salad and daily whippings to myself if I ate bad foods and felt nothing but sheer relief and accomplishment.

If I can do 30 minutes, I believe it's really possible I can finish this 5k running.

And to top it off? I logged my run when I got home, and I've finally, after 9 weeks, broken my own personal goal for speed. It's a pretty pathetic goal, really, but I truly don't give a shit. My goal was to get under a 12-minute mile, and tonight I finally did!

Tonight.

I had an emotional break about something I'd rather not put out there into the internet. I almost cried in a bad place to cry. I stopped on my way home at Sprouts to get something to cook for dinner. I threw wine, brownies, and chocolate covered almonds in my cart.

I didn't buy them.

I wanted to check out. To make my husband agree to going out to dinner. To order an appetizer and stop for ice cream on the way home. To drink enough wine to forget that I was supposed to run tonight.

I didn't do it.

I got home. I vented. I got hugs. I cooked healthy 'pizza' for the kids and me while Darrick ate leftovers. I skipped the wine.

I ran.

I finished week 8 tonight, and it was a tough run. My heart wasn't in it and that slip of time between 14 and 21 minutes was out to get me. But I kept running. One foot. Two foot. Feet, feet, feet.

I finished week 8 tonight.

I came home and thought about making Rice Krispie treats. I stared longingly at the circus cookies in the pantry. I imagined hot chocolate spiked with Kahlua.

I had some water and Greek yogurt.

Tonight I gave myself permission to be self-indulgent, but it wasn't with food. I complained. I curled under the world's softest blanket with my Luca and let her tell me about the games she made up in her head for us to play this weekend and who said what at school while I reveled in the peach of her cheeks and the silk of her hair. I took a hammer and chisel to some tile and subflooring. I read a long Dr. Suess book to my kids. I had tunnel-vision tucking in Rohan, lost in his sweet smiling eyes and the way he puts his hands on my cheeks and says, "Oh, you are MY mommy."

I haven't hit my stride in running. I don't love it yet. I am not dropping weight like I expected. Sometimes, I disappoint myself or others. But, at the end of the day, I didn't let myself let myself down.

2 Miles.

Today I broke with tradition and did a daytime run. It's about 70 degrees outside, and sunny as hell, and I felt every degree of that 70 and every drop of sunshine.

Week 6 is complete, and my 25 minute run took me 2 miles. Not exactly speedy, for sure (it was probably a 13 minute mile, since I walked for 5 minutes before I started to run. And 'run' is not exactly accurate, given that pace.

But you know what? I did it. I ran for 25 minutes without stopping. And I logged it on my new favorite website when I got home (mapmyrun.com) so I could see how far I went. And I am damn proud of myself.

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I've been struggling for a few months now with trying to follow WW and still live my life. Some days I completely forget to track food. Honestly, having to go on to the WW website and log in meals drives me kind of nuts. It takes longer than I want it to, and I get bored and frustrated.

I'm hoping I found the solution this morning. First, I bought a monthly/weekly planner at Target. I need one anyhow, to keep on top of work meetings and deadlines and appointments. But this planner is also going to be a tool I use to track one of my 2012 goals, running 350 miles. But the planner doesn't have enough space to keep a food journal, so I also got a small 'PlanHer' at Target. It's essentially a small notebook with two columns and a header space up top. I'm using it as a food journal, and also a place where I can write down my runs before I log them officially into my planner for the year. Again, I'm nothing if not an optimist, so here's hoping these tools will help me keep on top of my goals this year.

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Did I mention I ran 2 miles today???????

Week 6.

Week 6 started tonight on the C25K program, and I kicked it off with new running shoes and new ear buds. Not a shabby way to train, really. This week is 3 different routines like last week was, starting with tonight: warm up, 5 minute run/3 minute walk, 8 minute run/3 minute walk, 5 minute run, cool down. Day 2 will be two 10 minute runs with a 5 minute walk between, and Day 3 will be a 25 minute run. Tonight actually wasn't too difficult, which I'm taking as a good sign. I have about 5 weeks before my first 5k, and with just 3 weeks of training left I'm feeling confident I am actually going to be able to do this.

Seriously, 6 weeks ago I was barely running 60 seconds without feeling like I wanted to lay down and cry. And now I'm doing 5-8 minutes without thinking twice. I really cannot get over that.

The next month I'm going to be focused on completing the training and then maintaining the runs so I can get up to 3.2 miles before race day. My focus is also going to be shifting back to how I eat. I've given myself permission to eat whatever I want the past few months, and I know from experience that I won't lose any weight doing that. Even  with running 3 nights a week, the weight isn't melting away like I want it to. This is nothing new to me. My husband is forever trying to convince me that I can eat whatever I want if I just work out regulrarly, and I'll lose the weight. But he's wrong. I've tried that before, and for me it won't work. I know I need to get back on track with eating better along with the exercise. And not just so I can lose weight; so I can feel better and run better and be a healthier woman and wife and mom as well.

I Did It.

Tonight, I finished Week 5 of C25K with a 20 minute run. No breaks to walk. No slowing. No giving up or giving in to the voice telling me that my calves were burning and my lungs were tired and anyways no one would know if I really ran all 20 minutes, would they? I won't lie about it, to myself or anyone else who cares: it sucked. This week's podcast has all 3 days overlapped, so that you download one podcast for 3 completely different runs. At one point, I was almost to the end and all I could think was, "You are so close. Just keep running." And then, on the haedphones came that damn voice saying, "If you're on Day 3, keep going! You have about 4 minutes left." At that moment I was thankful I'd decided to finish the last of the runs at 10:30 at night rather than waiting for tomorrow to do it in the daylight. Because, in the daylight, I would have needed to look around to be sure there were no small children in earshot before exclaiming out loud, to the universe, "Fuck you!"

Oh yeah, I said "Fuck you!" to the podcast. To my legs, on fire and lead-heavy. To Robert Ullrey and running and the universe in general.

But then, there was the moment at the end, when I got to celebrate completing 20 minutes of running. When I walked the neighborhood listening to Mumford and Sons and felt my legs tingling and my heart pumping and my face, flush with sweat. When I said to myself, "Fuck YOU, and your doubting. You did it. YOU did it!"

Five weeks ago, I couldn't even run 90 seconds without feeling like I needed to go home and ice my shins and sleep for 14 hours. Five weeks ago I dreaded every run. Six weeks ago, I wasn't even trying. And now? I did it.

Week 5.

Tonight I started C25K week 5, and as much as it pains me to write this, it wasn't as bad as I'd expected. And maybe...just maybe...I was hoping it would be bad enough to justify quitting? I'm not claiming it was easy by any stretch, but I walked out the door this evening expecting to want to quit, and that never happened.

My week 5 day 1 routine was a 5 minute warm up then 5 running/3 walking/5 running/3 walking/5 running, then a cool down. And while I ran two 5 minute stretches all 3 days last week, doing it 3 times tonight was quite a workout. But I did it, and I didn't struggle nearly as much with it this week as I did last week. I think I actually find the routines with less intervals but longer ones to be a bit easier to manage. Just like with walking, I get into a groove and am not anxiously counting down to when I get to stop or when I have to start again.

This week is unique in that each of the 3 run routines is different. Day 2 will be 8 minutes running and 5 minutes walking, twice. And day 3 is the scary monster at the end of the road with a 20 minute run with no breaks. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't dreading those days, especially the last one. But at the same time I look at where I started, barely able to run more than 60 seconds straight without feeling totally winded and really sore, and I feel amazing and strong.

My coworker and I have talked quite a bit about the struggle to keep going, and the battling voices in our heads while training. The voice that says, "You are a fucking idiot and should just walk home right now, pour yourself some wine, and not get out of bed for the rest of the weekend." is just barely drowned out by the voice that says, "Bitch you are DOING this and you're amazing and you keep those feet RUNNING!" When it comes to motivation, I'm only mildly embarassed to admit that when I'm struggling to finish a run I've said to myself more than once, "You had a baby. In a plastic pool in your living room. If you can go through labor and deliver a human, you can do anything." And then, other times, I zone out on problems or issues I need to work out in my own head and have practice conversations with 'the enemy'. The only problem is that I'm not sure either of these tactics is going to work for 3.2 miles!

I should also note that I haven't weighed myself in 2 weeks. After 3 weeks of running I hadn't lost anything, so I sort of gave up on the scale. I'm giving myself permission to avoid the scale and focus on the non-scale victories until I hit the end of my training program. I'm about halfway through, and as long as I can maintain my routine through the holidays, I'm going to consider it a victory whether I lose weight or not.

But I can't lie: It would be nice if I stepped on the scale at the end of this and saw a loss.

First We Learn to Say Thank You. Then We Add Excuses.

When was the last time you paid a woman a compliment and she thanked you? When was the last time she thanked you without then excusing it away?

"You're adorable!" (to the gorgeous and thin pregnant woman)
"Oh gosh...thanks...but no, I'm HUGE! Look at these ankles!" (to me)

"Your son is so sweet to the other kids on the playground.  Kudos to you." (to mom of a 5 year old boy who, I can guess based on society's expectations of little boys, is not used to his behavior being complimented)
"Oh, thank you. Really, he's usually a total terror." (to me)

"I love those shoes!" (another mom at preschool to me)
"Thanks. I got them at Target on clearance for a steal. They are so worn out!" (me, to her)

What's the deal with this phenomenon? And why is it disproportionately women who do this? When's the last time you complimented a man and he responded by deflecting the compliment or excusing it away?

"You look hot." (me, to husband)
"I kind of do, don't I?" (husband, to me, as he checks himself out in the mirror)

Experience tells me that if I compliment another woman, she's going to find a way out of the compliment. It's the clothes that make her look fantastic (nevermind her 5 miles a day, 4 days a week running ritual and healthy eating). She looks good in that purple scarf, but only when she uses a lot of undereye concealor so the scarf doesn't play up the bags under her eyes (nevermind there are no bags and if there are, I wasn't looking for them anyhow). Her kids are only well behaved right now because they're going to Santa later (nevermind the fact that her 5 year old son stopped to make sure my 2 year old was ok when he ran by and accidently knocked my kid down). Cute shoes (but SO uncomfortable!). Love the new haircut (but it only looks like this because her stylist did it for her). She did great on the presentation (it's just too bad that she stuttered and forgot the figures on that one part no one else noticed).

Look, we're all guilty of this to some degree. I can't remember the last time someone said something nice to me and I didn't deflect it or excuse it away. I can't remember the last time someone told me I'm awesome at something and I replied, "Thanks, I really work hard on it." I can't remember the last time I said something nice to another woman and she accepted it graciously with a "Thank you" and then shut the fuck up.

It must stem from somewhere, and if I had to guess I would point my finger at social norms girls face growing up. I know it's not born in most of us, this desire to never ever accept a compliment graciously and freely. I know because I listen to my daughter when someone compliments her. Even at 4.5 years old, she sometimes has to be reminded to thank a person for a kind word, but that's not because she's too busy coming up with ways to pish-posh their kindness. It's because she is too busy agreeing with them.

"Your hair is so pretty." (woman at the store to my daughter)
"Yeah." (my daughter to her)


"Luca, you've been so nice to your brother today." (me, to her)
"Thank you, mommy." (her, to me)


"I just LOVE your artwork. It's so creative!" (grandma, to Lu)
"Thank you. I drew the best apple in class." (her, to grandma)

How do we get back there? How do we return to a time when society and our own insecurities don't hamper our ability to say thanks and just accept the damn compliment? How do we stop ourselves from making excuses for our achievements when what we really should say is, "Yeah, I kicked some ass, huh? Thanks!"

I remember a long time ago, when Darrick and I first got serious together, he chastised me (lovingly) for this very thing. "You say 'sorry' too much," he said. "You shouldn't say sorry all the time. You say it when you mess up, but you also say it when someone else messes up and inconveniences you." And it's true. When I went into a health food store 3 days after Luca was born in search of fenugreek and the woman asked me when I was due, I didn't laugh it off. I didn't give her the evil eye for asking. I didn't even ignore it and ask her to show me the way. What I DID do is look her in the eye and apologize to her for her fuck up. "Oh, I had the baby 3 days ago. Don't worry! I hear it's normal to look pregnant for a while after giving birth!" I said. "Oh, well...yeah..." she stumbled over her words. "Sorry," I replied, "I should have told you she was a newborn and I needed fenugreek to up my milk supply."

Sorry? I should have told you? It's my fault you lack basic social graces and don't know better than to ask a woman when she is due unless she says to you, "I am currently pregnant."?!?!

And the thing is, my daughter hears and remembers everything. I know she is watching me. I know she needs me to model for her what a woman is, and I know that I don't want her to be 'sorry' girl when she gets older. I don't want her to minimize her achievements to make other people feel more comfortable. To talk badly about herself because she thinks she should. Because when you do it for long enough, you start to believe it's true yourself. I look down the line, toward her future, and it crushes me a little. She is a bright light in the world, a wonderful and funny and kind and smart-as-hell girl, and the idea of her one day excusing those parts of herself away until...well...until they GO away? It scares me. I owe her better, and I am unapologetically capable of giving it to her.

So, false modesty? I'm sending you on vacation for a month. I'm going to try something new*: not allowing myself to apologize for someone else's faux pas, not excusing away genuine compliments, and not underselling myself for the sake of modesty.

This next month is Mission: No More False Modesty for me. I invite you to join me. I'll post more as the month goes on.

*No assholery will be accepted during this time. I'm not on a mission to become an egotistical asshole.

Week 4 Begins.

Week 3 finished a little belated thanks to travel and difficult schedules for my husband and me, but by the last run it was definitely feeling manageable. I was even feeling optimistic going into week 4.

And then I did the first run, tonight. It consists of a 5 minute walk to warm up followed by 2 circuits of a 3 minute run/90 second walk then 5 minute run/2.5 minute walk. And it was really, really difficult. I'm not sure if it was the jump from 3 minutes being the long run to 3 minutes being the short one, the shorter recovery walks, or the move from about 9 minutes of running total to 16 minutes. Whatever it was, though, I was definitely dragging and feeling the pain.

The good news is this: I completed the whole thing tonight. The 3 minute runs honestly came pretty easily and I didn't even feel apprehensive about them like I was feeling last week. I might even call them easy. And while in the past I've found the cardio aspect to be the biggest challenge on the runs, this time my cardio felt great. However, my legs were like lead by the end of the first 5 minutes and by the end of the second 5 minute run I was dragging big time.

I'm finding myself alternating between being really proud about my ability to complete each night of training and the dread of what the coming weeks of training will bring. At this point, I can't even imagine running for more than 30 minutes to complete the 5k in January, but on the other hand I couldn't imagine running for 5 straight minutes a month ago either.

I'm not going to give up. I am so happy I have a goal in mind, and thankful to have people in my life who support me and even a few who are putting up with my crazy goal and training right along with me. I just can't wait for this to get easier.

Colorfied.

The reason I am training using Couch to 5k? The Color Run! Not much could get me off my ass faster than the idea of being pelted by soft powder in rainbow hues. That's pretty much my dream come true. And to do it on my birthday, joined by friends? Perfection.

With week 1 of training over, however, I've realized I have really far to go. The good news is I'm able to complete the training using this podcast. it's a 5 minute brisk walk for warm-up, then alternating 60 seconds of running with 90 seconds of brisk walking 8 times, then 5 more minutes of walking to cool down. I love that I just hit play and the music starts while someone orders me around and tells me when to do what. It's so mindless, which is exactly what I need. If I had to use a stopwatch or a pedometer or any other tool, I'd be a lost cause.

My body, however, hurts. It's mainly my feet, which could probably use some new shoes fitted to my particular needs. But other than the pain, I am really finding myself looking forward to moving on to the next week. The first week definitely challenged me and pushed me out of my comfort zone, so I expect the second week is going to majorly suck ass. But I'm ready!

Forward.

2011. I knew from the start it was going to be a pisser. Shooting in Tucson. Vomiting up everything but my pancreas on my birthday. An IRS letter telling us we owed over $500 in unpaid taxes we didn't know we'd missed paying to kick off summer break. Not to mention hurricanes, tornadoes, and tsunamis worldwide. I think 2011 had it in not just for me, but for people all over the world.

But 2012? I predict a banner year. Already, the tide has started to shift for not only my little family, but several people I know and love. And I couldn't be MORE excited to usher in a new year very, very soon.

To kick it off right, I'm going to celebrate my birthday next year by completing my first 5k. Now, please not, I DO NOT run. As in, hate it. As in, would rather do pretty much ANY other type of exercise. As in...guuuuh. But I've always wanted to be the kind of girl who DOES run, so in honor of that dream I agreed to joining a team when my friend invited me. She promised I didn't HAVE to run it, but could walk part or all if I wanted, but I'm always up for a challenge. So run it I will. I began my training this week, and I'm optimistic and also scared entirely shitless about the prospect of completing the training and getting my big old butt out there on my birthday to run. But what has really inspired me, more than the idea of finally getting myself motivated to run a 5k and more than getting older and wanting to accomplish this one little thing to ring in a new year of life, is how the people around me have rallied. My friend invited me to join her team. And when I told some co-workers about it, they decided to run it too. When I told them I'm doing Couch to 5K for training, they agreed to do it at the same time, so we could compare notes and commiserate. My husband is cheering me on and encouraging me to train.

And then, there was the first night of training. We got to the park with the plan being I would run to the podcast while my husband took the kids to the playground, then we'd meet and eat our picnic dinner. As I settled in to my warm-up walk, I realized that (a) I'd somehow deleted the podcast AND all the music except one album and (b) the battery on the iPod was almost dead. Not willing to give up, I put the one album (thankfully one I enjoy) on shuffle and used the iPod stopwatch to time my walking and running intervals. And then my iPod battery died, just as I was about to run past 2 teenaged girls. In the sudden silence, I heard my labored breathing and my loud foot falls as I jogged past them. And I also heard them. I couldn't pick up exactly what they said, but I can only imagine it was something in the vein of "Hope that fat chick doesn't die before she gets back to her car." Or perhaps, "Look at her big old ass jiggling while she tries to run." Or even,  - - -

But then I decided to change my outlook. My ass isn't bouncing, it's clapping in appreciation of my efforts. This body made two beautiful children and sustained them well beyond the womb. It's not perfect at all, but in 10 or 15 years those cute teenage girls will probably look in the mirror and see a reflection more like mine than like the one they see today.

I finished that night's training and moved on to day two. I have one day left and then :poof: like that I am on to week 2. And before I know it, we will be celebrating Thanksgiving, then Christmas, then the new year, our anniversary...and then the run. And I am excited to start 2012 in that way.

Keep It Short.

I needed a change, so I got it.

I lost just over 10 inches of length and gained layers and bangs. This is me shortly after getting it cut by my sister in law. It was wet when she cut it and we didn't dry or style it, so it's hard to see the bangs and layers (but easy to see my natural, uncooperative waves), but I feel refreshed. It was time for a change.

And, for good measure, here's another from after I took a flatiron to the bangs and front pieces.

I Won't....

...Give Up.

On Me.

(lunch)

This Body: Will I Ever Be Happy?

"When in your life have you most liked your body?" my co-worker asked me.

I had no answer, at first. I thought back of the many versions of my body over the years. Me in high school, insecure and sure I didn't have a boyfriend because I didn't have a teeny waist. Me in college, packing on the weight and then picking away at it with Weight Watchers and hour-long sessions on the workout bike while watching Paradise Island. Me now, so uncomfortable and ungainly in my body that I sometimes find myself standing talking to someone and realize my hands have subconsciously gone in the pocket of my jeans and are pressing into the fat on my hips. Me, in junior high, lying on the floor on my back and feeling how my tummy still jutted above my hipbones while noticing that didn't happen for some of my friends and feeling jealous of their concave bellies. Me, freshman year of high school, awkward and chubby in my ill-fitting one-piece, swimming with my tall thin friend in her bikini and my curvy friend in her Speedo with the very high cut legs.

"Never," I answered her. And instantly I felt like a failure. For never loving my body. And for never doing something to really change it. "I came close, once," I said, "around the time I got married. I was ok with my weight, but I needed to tone up. It never happened."

Me, 3 years after our wedding and about 15 pounds over wedding weight. Honestly? I'd settle for being that size right now, and at the time I thought I needed to lose about 20 pounds.

How sad is that??? How awful is it that there's not a single point in my life when I can remember really, truly loving my body. Aside from the few months around my wedding day when I was almost to my goal weight and working out 3-5 days a week, the only other time I liked my body at all was when I was pregnant with Luca. I was a bit self-conscious as my boobs grew a cup size in the first 6 weeks and my belly looked more 'too much burrito' than 'cute little baby' for the first half of my pregnancy. But I also really, really loved being pregnant. I loved that belly, and I felt pretty good about what my body was capable of doing.

Just about done with my pregnancy with Luca. This was probably about 37-39 weeks, and other than looking super exhausted I feel good about that body.

The thing is, this co-worker? She's 5'6" and a size 4-6. She is adorable and has almost no fat on her body. And when I posed the same question back to her, her answer was almost the same as mine. "Never," she said to me. "When I was skinnier I wanted more curves. When I was in high school I hated being pale and flat chested. Now, I wish I could get rid of my thighs and tone up."

I guess I forget, that somewhere deep inside most women have body insecurities. Sometimes I struggle about talking openly about my journey to get healthier and lose weight. I worry what people will think of me. I worry I am opening myself up for other people to criticize and analyze. And then I remember: I'm no different than the average woman, whether that woman is a size 4 who longs for more womanly curves, a size 14 who wishes she was her high school size 10, or a size 24 who just wants to be able to ride coach in an airplane without feeling the armrests pinch into her hips and the scorn on the faces of the people in her row. We all struggle, in our own unique ways.

This week, I decided to do something just for me. Something that will make me feel better about my body. After everyone is in bed at night, I spend 30-60 minutes working out (THANK YOU streaming Netflix on my hubby's X Box!), and then I spend 10 minutes or so just reading quietly, in a quiet house. It's only been a few days, but already I'm remembering how much I really DO enjoy spending time caring for my body and waking up the next day feeling it in every muscle group I forgot I had.