I was recently complaining to an acquaintance but training for this half marathon. Not someone who knows me very well, but someone who was willing to listen to how much fun training is not. All she said when I was done was,"So tell me why you are running?" The simple answer is because I can. If we wanted to break it down and analyze it further and perhaps make it more interesting I could confess of the deep need for my children to see me in action. To see all of my limbs moving. To witness strength and capability on a physical level emanating from their mother. Something I never got see in my own mom. There is a power to moving your body beyond limitation. Beyond what you thought it was capable of. I want my children to always know I tried and to know that they must also try. Of course right now my children are too young to grasp anything beyond, " Mom likes to run with her friends." Which is s good start.
Each mile I run sparks something new inside me. Another goal becomes within my reach. It is something like that song,"This Little Light of Mine." Sometimes all we need is one shaft of light that blows away the darkness, gives us just enough of an outline to show us that the coat hanger isn't a monster and we have nothing to fear. One of my friends recently ran five miles and was telling me how great she felt afterward. I smiled and responded,"It's empowering, isn't it?" Her own smile tilted and grew and she said," Yes, it really is!" And that is just what it is, empowering. It never felt that way in my twenties and certainly not in my "Kermit" teens. Running was just something to do. Now it feels symbolic, large. I may never run another half-marathon and I can almost guarantee I won't run a marathon, training sucks the fun out of running. But it has made me realize that the only thing that stops us from dog anything, trying anything is ourselves.
When I wake up in the morning and feel tired and tell myself it is going to be bad day or a long day it is like Samantha Stevens has wiggled her nose and made it so. My oldest will miss his us, my husband will forget something important and will need me to bring it to his office, my toddler will only my attention and my four year old will want to finger paint..on my walls. I will discover I have nothing for dinner and no clean underwear. It's enough to make you want to go back to bed and stay there until you can start over with a new sunrise. I was explaining this to some of my mommy friends like this," If I have to take all three kids to Target I just tell myself it is going to be fine and they will behave." It works much better than telling myself how awful it will be because she enough that is what happens. I told them to try it. They all smiled but their eyes said, "You're crazy."
I met another woman a few days ago who is running the same half marathon. She is already up to 11 miles. When I told her I was at 9 miles her eyes sort of bulged and for moment I thought she had some food stuck in her throat. Then I realized she was just shocked that I was so far behind. I started to panic. Perhaps she is right. My training has been anything but regular. I have tried but with three kids, working every weekend and my husband also training it is almost impossible to stick to any kind of strict routine. Not to mention I don't really care for routines. She is at 11 miles. I'm at 9 and my thighs hurt, my knees hurt even my gluteus maximus feels maxed out. How will I make it to the finish line? It was at that moment that I realized I was sinking myself before I even got to the starting line. I was talking myself out of something that I can do. I m running because I can. I am running because it empowers me. I am running because my gluteus maximus has never looked better.
I may take a long time to reach the finish line but waiting there for me will be three little people who won't know how long it took or what it means to me. They will have a memory of a moment when their mom was strong and healthy and ran breathless to them, while they all pointed to the bounce house and Dunkin Donut booth begging for Munckins.
So we can take the pyschologist approach to my running and break it down and beat it like an old rug, spreading dust in a thousand directions and forgetting where it all came from or we can keep it simple and say," I am running because I can."
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Friday, September 3, 2010
Signs
When I lived in Arizona, I would call my mother and ask her to call and remind me of anything from my work schedule to a hair cut appointment. I was 25. I suppose one should not brag of such a thing. And today some smart psychologist would certainly accuse my mother of "enabling " me to not be independent or some other kind of blah blah blah. The truth was I could have bought a calendar and wrote things down but how much better is it to hear a voice you love calling you to remind you that you have a doctor's appointment on Thursday at 2 and "wear clean underwear"? My mother enjoyed doing those things for me. On a physical level her life was limited, especially as I got older but her mental self was like solid steel. You could not penetrate through and take a single memory or telephone number away from her. Her body may have been completely disobeying her every command but somehow her multiple sclerosis could not touch a single neuron or basil ganglia that controlled anything remotely to do with memory, intuition or sassiness.
My mother passed away five years ago today. She had a bad heart that went undetected for more than a year. She was misdiagnosed with fibromyalgia and took whatever advice or medication was dispensed by this doctor or that and went about her business. It all came to a head when she landed in the ED with severe pain and it was finally determined she was having chest pain and a cardiac catheterization was done which revealed a blockage in her main arteries of 99%. She would not live out the week we were told unless she had open heart surgery. It all happened very fast and it felt as though I were watching it play out in someone's life, not mine. I almost never felt a part of the whole week. Her time in the ICU after the surgery was, to be frank, brutal. For all the years that she had trouble moving her limbs she could always talk to me. While she was in ICU she remained intubated and I could not hear her voice. When she was awake she could only nod or shake her head and smiling was even tough thanks to that God awful tube poking out of the side of her mouth. You have to understand I grew up with my mother's voice not her body. I hardly had a single friend who had a parent who had any kind of disability so their lives were not divided...their parents walked and talked. My mother talked, she scolded, she loved from her chair. She was as good a parent as any and better than some. She loved with her voice. I didn't need her arms wrapped around me to know I was safe with her. It was always her voice. My biggest fear that week was not being able to hear her voice again. I didn't, at least not the way I wanted. When the tube was removed she was able to whisper a thank you.
So really why would I have wanted a calendar when a sweet voice would happily ring my phone and remind of anything and everything. She felt useful , I felt loved. I was explaining this to my girlfriend last week. She found it funny and probably amazing that my mother would do that. The crazy part was my mother never needed to write it down, she just remembered. I asked my husband that week, when I realized how bad things were going," Who will remind me to do stuff?". He answered he could, which only made me cry harder because that man can't remember where he put his keys.
I was explaining all this to my girlfriend as a way of getting ot my point that I needed to make an eye doctor appointment. I think she missed the point because she said," call and make an appointment." I said,"I keep forgetting."
Last weekend we were having dinner with friends and I had placed my glasses on the table. No one was paying particular attention when our 17 month old grabbed them and proceeded to break them beyond repair. She just pulled at the ear pieces and snap that was all she wrote. I stared in disbelief. I was too tired to get really upset. I am able to balance them on my nose so when I drive I can see where I am going. The same girlfriend who missed the point of my very long story was in the car with me the next evening and just stared at me. "Your glasses are cracking me up" she said finally. I explained what happened and she was very quiet for a moment. Then she smiled at me and said," Did it occur to you that your mother whispered to your daughter and told her to break your glasses so you would get around to making that eye doctor appointment?" This is why I love this particular friend. She sees things in a way that I would not yet I don't find her explanations to be born of craziness. She is crazy, yes but in a subtle and enjoyable way. This was something I would not have thought of on my own. And perhaps for some people that is just plain crazy talk. But for me it was beautiful. It placed my mother right there in my space and I could hear her saying,"Isn't it time to get your eyes checked?" Most people may not believe in signs from those who have left us and those people may not have had that loss yet that makes you crave what is gone and can no longer be.
It is a club, right now a small club, that I have few members in. I am sure they would agree with my friend that my mother was throwing me a sign. Perhaps she sent other signs but they were too subtle, she may have forgotten I don't always catch on that quick, or she might be really busy, I do have a sister. And now I do have Microsoft and a calendar that pops up and dings with reminders of what I have to do. It is not the same but life does go on. I do have doctor appointment to thank her for and all those other things she called and reminded me to do and that is enough to make me smile.
My mother passed away five years ago today. She had a bad heart that went undetected for more than a year. She was misdiagnosed with fibromyalgia and took whatever advice or medication was dispensed by this doctor or that and went about her business. It all came to a head when she landed in the ED with severe pain and it was finally determined she was having chest pain and a cardiac catheterization was done which revealed a blockage in her main arteries of 99%. She would not live out the week we were told unless she had open heart surgery. It all happened very fast and it felt as though I were watching it play out in someone's life, not mine. I almost never felt a part of the whole week. Her time in the ICU after the surgery was, to be frank, brutal. For all the years that she had trouble moving her limbs she could always talk to me. While she was in ICU she remained intubated and I could not hear her voice. When she was awake she could only nod or shake her head and smiling was even tough thanks to that God awful tube poking out of the side of her mouth. You have to understand I grew up with my mother's voice not her body. I hardly had a single friend who had a parent who had any kind of disability so their lives were not divided...their parents walked and talked. My mother talked, she scolded, she loved from her chair. She was as good a parent as any and better than some. She loved with her voice. I didn't need her arms wrapped around me to know I was safe with her. It was always her voice. My biggest fear that week was not being able to hear her voice again. I didn't, at least not the way I wanted. When the tube was removed she was able to whisper a thank you.
So really why would I have wanted a calendar when a sweet voice would happily ring my phone and remind of anything and everything. She felt useful , I felt loved. I was explaining this to my girlfriend last week. She found it funny and probably amazing that my mother would do that. The crazy part was my mother never needed to write it down, she just remembered. I asked my husband that week, when I realized how bad things were going," Who will remind me to do stuff?". He answered he could, which only made me cry harder because that man can't remember where he put his keys.
I was explaining all this to my girlfriend as a way of getting ot my point that I needed to make an eye doctor appointment. I think she missed the point because she said," call and make an appointment." I said,"I keep forgetting."
Last weekend we were having dinner with friends and I had placed my glasses on the table. No one was paying particular attention when our 17 month old grabbed them and proceeded to break them beyond repair. She just pulled at the ear pieces and snap that was all she wrote. I stared in disbelief. I was too tired to get really upset. I am able to balance them on my nose so when I drive I can see where I am going. The same girlfriend who missed the point of my very long story was in the car with me the next evening and just stared at me. "Your glasses are cracking me up" she said finally. I explained what happened and she was very quiet for a moment. Then she smiled at me and said," Did it occur to you that your mother whispered to your daughter and told her to break your glasses so you would get around to making that eye doctor appointment?" This is why I love this particular friend. She sees things in a way that I would not yet I don't find her explanations to be born of craziness. She is crazy, yes but in a subtle and enjoyable way. This was something I would not have thought of on my own. And perhaps for some people that is just plain crazy talk. But for me it was beautiful. It placed my mother right there in my space and I could hear her saying,"Isn't it time to get your eyes checked?" Most people may not believe in signs from those who have left us and those people may not have had that loss yet that makes you crave what is gone and can no longer be.
It is a club, right now a small club, that I have few members in. I am sure they would agree with my friend that my mother was throwing me a sign. Perhaps she sent other signs but they were too subtle, she may have forgotten I don't always catch on that quick, or she might be really busy, I do have a sister. And now I do have Microsoft and a calendar that pops up and dings with reminders of what I have to do. It is not the same but life does go on. I do have doctor appointment to thank her for and all those other things she called and reminded me to do and that is enough to make me smile.
Monday, August 30, 2010
One Good Man
The summer between seventh and eighth grade I spent a few days with my girlfriend at her grandparents house in Maine. It was on a lake and I remember barely being able to swim because the water was so cold. But it was fun. We played Trivial Pursuit and ate beef stew ,which her grandfather made and to this day I think is the best I have ever tasted. That summer I had a crush. Well, I probably had a crush very summer what girl doesn't? But this summer stands out in particular. He had brown hair, a bit wavy, big smile, strong arms and he was just funny. My girlfriend and I talked about him but she had to break the news to me that he liked someone else. I hated those days. It was rough being thwarted when you were only 13. Of course there were many years ahead of thwarting but somehow those first couple when you are so young stay with you.
Anyway, as it turns out when we got to high school he asked me to the Homecoming dance. We went but for some reason that bit of whatever I had two summers ago didn't seem to be there. we were friends and remained so. When college came we stayed in touch. He sent letters to me in crushed beer cans, I sent letters on dainty stationary. He sent letters I had to turn the paper clockwise in order to read . I sent him cards by Amanda Bradley, embarrassing as that is to admit. We saw each other over school breaks and hung out with a whole group but never got around to dating. It just wasn't part of the plan.
After college we both went our separate ways and lost touch. About 6 years later I was at a Christmas party of a mutual friend and saw another mutual friend I hadn't seen in years. I was home for the holidays but at the time was living in South Carolina. Five months later,in early May, I got a phone call from my mother explaining that reg had called and wanted to reach me. She gave me his number because the reality was my mother wanted me home and here was a possible way to do it. She was sneaky like that. How is it that mothers always know best? She insisted I call him back, even after I explained I hadn't talked to him in years and was 900 miles away. She knew I was coming home in July and that I didn't have a plan. I called him back. A few days later he sent me a birthday card. My birthday is in February. I wrote back, on nice stationary.
Twelve years later we are celebrating our tenth wedding anniversary. It hardly seems possible. Of course it hardly seems possible that I am 40, have three kids and am considered by most to be a full blown adult.
Good thing I am married to someone who knows how to have fun,let go and test the boundaries of tact and decorum just enough to keep me guessing. I have watched him change from Teva wearing bachelor to a man who "travels on business". From someone who is not sure how to hold a newborn to someone who handles three kids with more grace and patience than anyone, myself included., possibly could. I have witnessed his tears of joy at the birth of our children and tears of sorrow when my mother passed away. He can make me laugh so hard my sides cramp or he can make me want to throw something at him. We like to consider him versatile.
A couple weeks ago my girlfriend emailed me to tell me at the end of her children's birthday party she found my husband lying in the Bounce House with our daughter , now 17 months old, jumping around him. She said the smile on his face was priceless. I didn't need a description. I could close my eyes and see it as clearly as I did when I was 13.
Anyway, as it turns out when we got to high school he asked me to the Homecoming dance. We went but for some reason that bit of whatever I had two summers ago didn't seem to be there. we were friends and remained so. When college came we stayed in touch. He sent letters to me in crushed beer cans, I sent letters on dainty stationary. He sent letters I had to turn the paper clockwise in order to read . I sent him cards by Amanda Bradley, embarrassing as that is to admit. We saw each other over school breaks and hung out with a whole group but never got around to dating. It just wasn't part of the plan.
After college we both went our separate ways and lost touch. About 6 years later I was at a Christmas party of a mutual friend and saw another mutual friend I hadn't seen in years. I was home for the holidays but at the time was living in South Carolina. Five months later,in early May, I got a phone call from my mother explaining that reg had called and wanted to reach me. She gave me his number because the reality was my mother wanted me home and here was a possible way to do it. She was sneaky like that. How is it that mothers always know best? She insisted I call him back, even after I explained I hadn't talked to him in years and was 900 miles away. She knew I was coming home in July and that I didn't have a plan. I called him back. A few days later he sent me a birthday card. My birthday is in February. I wrote back, on nice stationary.
Twelve years later we are celebrating our tenth wedding anniversary. It hardly seems possible. Of course it hardly seems possible that I am 40, have three kids and am considered by most to be a full blown adult.
Good thing I am married to someone who knows how to have fun,let go and test the boundaries of tact and decorum just enough to keep me guessing. I have watched him change from Teva wearing bachelor to a man who "travels on business". From someone who is not sure how to hold a newborn to someone who handles three kids with more grace and patience than anyone, myself included., possibly could. I have witnessed his tears of joy at the birth of our children and tears of sorrow when my mother passed away. He can make me laugh so hard my sides cramp or he can make me want to throw something at him. We like to consider him versatile.
A couple weeks ago my girlfriend emailed me to tell me at the end of her children's birthday party she found my husband lying in the Bounce House with our daughter , now 17 months old, jumping around him. She said the smile on his face was priceless. I didn't need a description. I could close my eyes and see it as clearly as I did when I was 13.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Let the Paining Begin...I mean Training...
My legs hurt. My thighs burn and my calves are aching. My lower abdomen is crying out for mercy, probably because there aren't any muscles left to support that area. And I am wondering why I let my husband talk me into this in the first place? Was it a moment of pure insanity? Did he look particularly handsome on that day and I thought "Aw, you're cute...sure I can run 13 miles with you." I am not sure. There are many decisions I have made over the past 40 years that seemed like a good idea at the time. Blunt cut bob, four layers of shirts, Jordache jeans and that guy in South Carolina. This decision, however could prove to be a physical detriment. Hopefully not but don't think I won't be calling on my physical therapist friend for advice and my girlfriends for sympathy at some point.
I'm going to go back and explain again about the hills that surround my life. As I increase my mileage I also have to add more hills to go up. And it is truly amazing that I have more hills to run up but I never seem to be running downhill anywhere. I am considering petitioning to have the town name officially changed to "Hillsville" or "Up,up and away". I am not sure how this will go over with the locals. I am guessing not well. Sympathy surely won't be with a mother of three who only moved into town five years ago. You have to have been born here to attempt any change and then of course if you were born here you don't want anything to change anyway. So I am stuck with the name and stuck with the hills. One of my friends from my previous urban life commented on her first trip to my house, "I was beginning to feel like I was in the "Sound of Music"." And she broke into the song "The Hills are Alive..." At the time I laughed. Last week I informed her she isn't so funny any more. My husband who normally runs at the gym in a controlled climate on one of those gerbil cage treadmills ran a seven mile loop around the neighborhood the other night and all he could spit out when he got back was "Damn hills".
Training would go so much better, I am convinced if I could run on a flat surface. If I wasn't constantly pumping my arms and pushing my leg muscles to carry me just a little bit higher. But there is no getting around it. Believe me I have tried. The closest I can get is to drive myself somewhere and then run which seems to completely defeat the purpose. I cannot run on a treadmill, it gives me motion sickness. I cannot run on a track because I lose count of how many times I have run around and seven plus miles on a track might just make me dizzy. At this point I have to concentrate on the music playing in my ears and use Jedi mind tricks to convince myself that the landscape is just tilting and that I am staying straight on course and the horizon is not over the hill but staring me right in the eyes. Now if I could only use that same trick to convince my lower abdomen that have enough muscle to hold everything in place this race should be a piece of cake.
I'm going to go back and explain again about the hills that surround my life. As I increase my mileage I also have to add more hills to go up. And it is truly amazing that I have more hills to run up but I never seem to be running downhill anywhere. I am considering petitioning to have the town name officially changed to "Hillsville" or "Up,up and away". I am not sure how this will go over with the locals. I am guessing not well. Sympathy surely won't be with a mother of three who only moved into town five years ago. You have to have been born here to attempt any change and then of course if you were born here you don't want anything to change anyway. So I am stuck with the name and stuck with the hills. One of my friends from my previous urban life commented on her first trip to my house, "I was beginning to feel like I was in the "Sound of Music"." And she broke into the song "The Hills are Alive..." At the time I laughed. Last week I informed her she isn't so funny any more. My husband who normally runs at the gym in a controlled climate on one of those gerbil cage treadmills ran a seven mile loop around the neighborhood the other night and all he could spit out when he got back was "Damn hills".
Training would go so much better, I am convinced if I could run on a flat surface. If I wasn't constantly pumping my arms and pushing my leg muscles to carry me just a little bit higher. But there is no getting around it. Believe me I have tried. The closest I can get is to drive myself somewhere and then run which seems to completely defeat the purpose. I cannot run on a treadmill, it gives me motion sickness. I cannot run on a track because I lose count of how many times I have run around and seven plus miles on a track might just make me dizzy. At this point I have to concentrate on the music playing in my ears and use Jedi mind tricks to convince myself that the landscape is just tilting and that I am staying straight on course and the horizon is not over the hill but staring me right in the eyes. Now if I could only use that same trick to convince my lower abdomen that have enough muscle to hold everything in place this race should be a piece of cake.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Musak to run by...
Truth be told I love music. I love to sing. I sing in the shower, the car or anywhere I am alone. I sing as though I am Barbra Streisand's long lost sister and could blow you away with my octaves and bellowing voice. Truth be told I have a quiet, somewhat in tune voice. Of course after watching "American Idol" I cannot say without a shadow of a doubt that I do sing in tune since being "in tune" apparently is something only Simon Cowell can diagnose for sure.
This week I got an IPod Shuffle. My old MP3 bit the dust. My husband proceeded to "help" me download music so I could get back to running. ( I cannot run without music since the days of the Sony Walkman) He managed to download his music onto my IPod. Needless to say I was in a frenzy to get his music back where it belonged. He listens to bands named KORN ( with the R spelled backwards which leads me to believe the band has bigger issues then not being able to speak lyrics coherently) and Nine Inch Nails. If I put on a Glenn Miller CD he just rolls his eyes and tells me I was born to the wrong generation. Could be. Or we could say that I am very well rounded. I love Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald. I love Young MC and vintage Micheal Jackson. I can dance to Black Eyed Peas or Big Band Swing. My husband thinks I am nuts. I think he has no musical taste.
I am unable to run without music. The sound of my breathing isn't really pleasant, especially with all these hills. And really it is just boring. I have done it once or twice and the time just seems to drag. With music time moves forward simply and peacefully and my legs just keep moving. MMy legs move to the beat and my mind sings along or sometimes even wanders since music also has the ability to evoke memories. Paul McCartney and Wings reminds me of summers when I was very young. Madonna reminds me of 8th grade and some pretty bad fashion choices. Billy Joel reminds me of my friend's mom who loved BIlly Joela nd we listened to him all the way to Maine one summer for a week at her grandparents house on a lake.
My husband spent quite awhile trying to figure out how to get rid of his music and get mine on the Shuffle. At one point he managed to add my songs but still had not deleted his own. He was listening to the songs to figure out where mine started and his ended and he just kept looking at me and shaking his head. "You run to this?" He asked , incredulous. We apparently "run" for different reasons. I run to be alone for an hour. To clear my head, let my mind wander. To imagine my life had I been born Barbra and could sing out loud and blow an audience away. He runs to run fast and get it over with. Thus he runs with "Bang your Head music" blaring in his ears and I run to "Love, soft as an easy chair", or something along those lines. I do like Celine Dion but I also love Aerosmith. Music is like good food, you can never get enough of it and the more stuff you like the richer the experience is. So I suppose I should give my husband's music a chance. Nah my life is rich enough.
This week I got an IPod Shuffle. My old MP3 bit the dust. My husband proceeded to "help" me download music so I could get back to running. ( I cannot run without music since the days of the Sony Walkman) He managed to download his music onto my IPod. Needless to say I was in a frenzy to get his music back where it belonged. He listens to bands named KORN ( with the R spelled backwards which leads me to believe the band has bigger issues then not being able to speak lyrics coherently) and Nine Inch Nails. If I put on a Glenn Miller CD he just rolls his eyes and tells me I was born to the wrong generation. Could be. Or we could say that I am very well rounded. I love Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald. I love Young MC and vintage Micheal Jackson. I can dance to Black Eyed Peas or Big Band Swing. My husband thinks I am nuts. I think he has no musical taste.
I am unable to run without music. The sound of my breathing isn't really pleasant, especially with all these hills. And really it is just boring. I have done it once or twice and the time just seems to drag. With music time moves forward simply and peacefully and my legs just keep moving. MMy legs move to the beat and my mind sings along or sometimes even wanders since music also has the ability to evoke memories. Paul McCartney and Wings reminds me of summers when I was very young. Madonna reminds me of 8th grade and some pretty bad fashion choices. Billy Joel reminds me of my friend's mom who loved BIlly Joela nd we listened to him all the way to Maine one summer for a week at her grandparents house on a lake.
My husband spent quite awhile trying to figure out how to get rid of his music and get mine on the Shuffle. At one point he managed to add my songs but still had not deleted his own. He was listening to the songs to figure out where mine started and his ended and he just kept looking at me and shaking his head. "You run to this?" He asked , incredulous. We apparently "run" for different reasons. I run to be alone for an hour. To clear my head, let my mind wander. To imagine my life had I been born Barbra and could sing out loud and blow an audience away. He runs to run fast and get it over with. Thus he runs with "Bang your Head music" blaring in his ears and I run to "Love, soft as an easy chair", or something along those lines. I do like Celine Dion but I also love Aerosmith. Music is like good food, you can never get enough of it and the more stuff you like the richer the experience is. So I suppose I should give my husband's music a chance. Nah my life is rich enough.
Monday, June 14, 2010
The Lottery
My husband buys lottery tickets. There I said it. He does every few weeks when the lottery hits some obscene amount like 200 million he runs off to the gas station on the corner and buys two or three tickets and comes home holding them like the Golden Ticket that will lead him to all the chocolate he can eat. Or in his case to all the fishing one man can do in a lifetime. A ticket that will allow him to trade in his khaki's and computer for waders and bait and call the run of the fish instead the run of insurance rates. We haggle for about 24 hours about what we would do with that much money. Buy a bigger house? Smaller house? More land ? Less land? It's fun for 24 hours and then the next morning he checks his tickets and sadly pulls on his khakis.
Last week our washing machine kicked the bucket. It took me over seven hours to realize that the machine was not indeed working and the smelly things I was trying desperately to wash were not coming clean. The water wouldn't drain. I called my husband who vowed to "have a look" when he got home. When he got home that night he dropped our four year old on my nose which bled heavily and we somehow lost track of him "taking a look" at anything. It was two more days before he had time and after a good hour of "looking" at it we realized we needed professional help, which wouldn't be the first time. That was Saturday. On Sunday evening I had to wash a couple things in the sink and I won't mention what but some things just had to be cleaned. Today I had the dilemma of what to do with all the laundry that was piling up. I called my sister in law who was happy to lend me her machine so I collected two loads and went out the door, stopping at my friend's house who also volunteered her machines. When I got to her house she offered to just do both loads for me, unmentionables and all, while I hit the grocery store ( it would seem we were also out of anything edible in our house as well). I think my pupils might have magnified to ten times their normal size. All I could ask was "Really?" And she said yes. So I left my laundry and peeled out of her driveway before she could rethink her offer. When I called my sister in law to explain she wouldn't be seeing me she was incredulous that I had a friend who was actually doing my laundry. She said," Now if you could just get someone to clean your house!"
She's right of course. A mom's life would be much easier if we could delegate tasks we hated or chores that take too much time away from things we would really enjoy doing. This morning as I ran past another girlfriends house I thought about what a great friend she is as well. She helped us with our kids a couple weekends ago. My husband and I had a chance to go to Boston for the day with friends and in order to do this we needed our three kids cared for. So two friends who were available worked it out and took our three kids. One of them had our three plus her own three for nearly four hours. It occurred to me this morning, and it is not the first time but it started to sink slowly into each small fiber of my muscles that I am surrounded by fabulous people. That I have somehow managed to create a circle of friends who are giving and gracious and have given me a village of my own.
I have friends who will do my laundry and care for my children. I have friends who I can call when I need to cry and when I need to laugh. I have friends who check up on me and some who keep me in check. Those who cheer me on and cheer me up. Those who know I need more sleep than the average person and those who try to keep me awake so I won't miss the fun. I have friends who run with me, walk with me or just sit on the porch and have a drink. I have friends who inspire me to be frugal and some who inspire me to splurge. I have friends who run through screen doors and some who are more graceful. I have friends who call for advice and some who show up just in the nick of time. I have book reading friends and "Twilight" loving friends. I have friends who love me for my attributes as well as my faults, but are kind enough not to tally them up.
My girlfriend, who watched my kids that Saturday, when I tried thanking her simply said,"We're a village." Amen to that. My husband can keep buying lottery tickets. As far as I can tell we've already won.
Last week our washing machine kicked the bucket. It took me over seven hours to realize that the machine was not indeed working and the smelly things I was trying desperately to wash were not coming clean. The water wouldn't drain. I called my husband who vowed to "have a look" when he got home. When he got home that night he dropped our four year old on my nose which bled heavily and we somehow lost track of him "taking a look" at anything. It was two more days before he had time and after a good hour of "looking" at it we realized we needed professional help, which wouldn't be the first time. That was Saturday. On Sunday evening I had to wash a couple things in the sink and I won't mention what but some things just had to be cleaned. Today I had the dilemma of what to do with all the laundry that was piling up. I called my sister in law who was happy to lend me her machine so I collected two loads and went out the door, stopping at my friend's house who also volunteered her machines. When I got to her house she offered to just do both loads for me, unmentionables and all, while I hit the grocery store ( it would seem we were also out of anything edible in our house as well). I think my pupils might have magnified to ten times their normal size. All I could ask was "Really?" And she said yes. So I left my laundry and peeled out of her driveway before she could rethink her offer. When I called my sister in law to explain she wouldn't be seeing me she was incredulous that I had a friend who was actually doing my laundry. She said," Now if you could just get someone to clean your house!"
She's right of course. A mom's life would be much easier if we could delegate tasks we hated or chores that take too much time away from things we would really enjoy doing. This morning as I ran past another girlfriends house I thought about what a great friend she is as well. She helped us with our kids a couple weekends ago. My husband and I had a chance to go to Boston for the day with friends and in order to do this we needed our three kids cared for. So two friends who were available worked it out and took our three kids. One of them had our three plus her own three for nearly four hours. It occurred to me this morning, and it is not the first time but it started to sink slowly into each small fiber of my muscles that I am surrounded by fabulous people. That I have somehow managed to create a circle of friends who are giving and gracious and have given me a village of my own.
I have friends who will do my laundry and care for my children. I have friends who I can call when I need to cry and when I need to laugh. I have friends who check up on me and some who keep me in check. Those who cheer me on and cheer me up. Those who know I need more sleep than the average person and those who try to keep me awake so I won't miss the fun. I have friends who run with me, walk with me or just sit on the porch and have a drink. I have friends who inspire me to be frugal and some who inspire me to splurge. I have friends who run through screen doors and some who are more graceful. I have friends who call for advice and some who show up just in the nick of time. I have book reading friends and "Twilight" loving friends. I have friends who love me for my attributes as well as my faults, but are kind enough not to tally them up.
My girlfriend, who watched my kids that Saturday, when I tried thanking her simply said,"We're a village." Amen to that. My husband can keep buying lottery tickets. As far as I can tell we've already won.
Monday, June 7, 2010
The Sweet Smell of Summer
This morning I ran past a large honeysuckle bush and I hit it just as a slight breeze kicked up and the sweet smell form that bush made me want to stop and pull a couple flowers and suck on their stems. Which I suppose could have gotten me into trouble or at least some very strange looks from the few commuters heading off to work.
It is something about the smells around me that keep my mind in a constant state of nostalgia. The honeysuckle bush this morning sent my mind back about 25-30 years and our summers spent at the beach. It was a nice area. My mom could let me go off and ride my bike around the point and go to the playground. I spent warm days playing in the sand and taking boat rides with my dad. One summer we rented a small red cottage. It had linoleum floors throughout, which even to a seven year old it was not exactly "cozy". It had a screened porch that was off the kitchen and overlooked the backyard. There was another row of houses in front of that screened porch but beyond that was the beach. We had a sliver of a view from our yard. The yard also had huge boulders that were surrounded by honeysuckle bushes. My friend, Emily and I used to sit on those rocks and pluck the honeysuckle flowers and suck the juice right out of them. Those rocks were awesome you could leap from one to the other. When we came back from the beach I could warm myself on them like I was some kind of lizard instead of a tow headed, gangly kid.
The beach that was across the street was called East beach. It had lots of rocks but it had a dock you could jump and dive off of. I loved that dock. We would play match stick. Someone would throw a small matchstick into the water then jump on it and splash around like a drowning person hoping to make enough foam to keep the matchstick hidden. A group of kids would stand on the dock, eyes on the prize and then a scramble would happen as the matchstick was spotted. Over and over and over again we played. One evening my dad took me to the dock for a night swim. I remember he had a on pants and a windbreaker. I had on a bathing suit and blue lips. As a mom now I can just imagine that was something my father probably wasn't hopped up to do. I may have been relentless in my pursuit for the ultimate night swim and he may have just caved in. I don't remember. I do remember that swim and jumping into the dark water and swimming as fast as I could back to the dock before Jaws surfaced. It was thrilling.
I remember the group of women who would sit near us on Main Beach. One woman had an arm full of silver bangle bracelets. She was probably in her seventies then. She just looked ancient to me. She was crispy from all her sun exposure but there she was every day, sitting in her chair book on her lap, bangles glistening in the bright summer sun.
I remember our plaid cooler filled with grapes and peaches and sandwiches on rye bread with mustard. I remember my dad's sandals as we rode on the bike to the beach. They had a hard sole and made a solid plunk along the pavement, followed by the scrape of beach sand. I remember the brown bike with the rickety seat on the back and how I swayed to and fro as we rode around the point. I remember the six o'clock whistle that came from the fire station every night as we sat on the beach enjoying the best part of the day.
I remember playing War with two decks of cards with my mother and I remember the view of Kiddy Beach from our Burrows Street cottage. I remember the painting of the salmon struggling upstream and how lonely it made me feel. I remember outdoor showers and corn on the cob and rides on the carousel at Watch Hill and the thrill of catching the golden ring and winning a free ride.
All this I remember from the smell of that honeysuckle bush. Now if it could just help me remember where I left my keys....
It is something about the smells around me that keep my mind in a constant state of nostalgia. The honeysuckle bush this morning sent my mind back about 25-30 years and our summers spent at the beach. It was a nice area. My mom could let me go off and ride my bike around the point and go to the playground. I spent warm days playing in the sand and taking boat rides with my dad. One summer we rented a small red cottage. It had linoleum floors throughout, which even to a seven year old it was not exactly "cozy". It had a screened porch that was off the kitchen and overlooked the backyard. There was another row of houses in front of that screened porch but beyond that was the beach. We had a sliver of a view from our yard. The yard also had huge boulders that were surrounded by honeysuckle bushes. My friend, Emily and I used to sit on those rocks and pluck the honeysuckle flowers and suck the juice right out of them. Those rocks were awesome you could leap from one to the other. When we came back from the beach I could warm myself on them like I was some kind of lizard instead of a tow headed, gangly kid.
The beach that was across the street was called East beach. It had lots of rocks but it had a dock you could jump and dive off of. I loved that dock. We would play match stick. Someone would throw a small matchstick into the water then jump on it and splash around like a drowning person hoping to make enough foam to keep the matchstick hidden. A group of kids would stand on the dock, eyes on the prize and then a scramble would happen as the matchstick was spotted. Over and over and over again we played. One evening my dad took me to the dock for a night swim. I remember he had a on pants and a windbreaker. I had on a bathing suit and blue lips. As a mom now I can just imagine that was something my father probably wasn't hopped up to do. I may have been relentless in my pursuit for the ultimate night swim and he may have just caved in. I don't remember. I do remember that swim and jumping into the dark water and swimming as fast as I could back to the dock before Jaws surfaced. It was thrilling.
I remember the group of women who would sit near us on Main Beach. One woman had an arm full of silver bangle bracelets. She was probably in her seventies then. She just looked ancient to me. She was crispy from all her sun exposure but there she was every day, sitting in her chair book on her lap, bangles glistening in the bright summer sun.
I remember our plaid cooler filled with grapes and peaches and sandwiches on rye bread with mustard. I remember my dad's sandals as we rode on the bike to the beach. They had a hard sole and made a solid plunk along the pavement, followed by the scrape of beach sand. I remember the brown bike with the rickety seat on the back and how I swayed to and fro as we rode around the point. I remember the six o'clock whistle that came from the fire station every night as we sat on the beach enjoying the best part of the day.
I remember playing War with two decks of cards with my mother and I remember the view of Kiddy Beach from our Burrows Street cottage. I remember the painting of the salmon struggling upstream and how lonely it made me feel. I remember outdoor showers and corn on the cob and rides on the carousel at Watch Hill and the thrill of catching the golden ring and winning a free ride.
All this I remember from the smell of that honeysuckle bush. Now if it could just help me remember where I left my keys....
Friday, June 4, 2010
I'll Take the Desk Job
Somewhere I have a Polaroid of me on a Christmas morning all dressed up in my American Red Cross nurses uniform. It was a white dress with small red crosses on each lapel. It had a white nurses cap and a blue cape. I loved that cape. It made me feel like Florence Nightingale. My mother was a nurse and had , at one time, worn a very similar outfit, minus the cape. She might have been jealous of that beautiful cape to tell the truth. But she did have the starched collars and the cap.
My mom graduated from a hospital school of nursing program in 1956. Her yearbook is fabulous. We would sit and thumb through it together. That was the time when bed pans were made of stainless steel and intravenous bottles were made of glass. She would always point out the picture of her and a colleague standing with her favorite doctor. She had quite the crush but it happens to the best of us. But the best of us get smart and move on. Really it was all very romantic to me.
My mother loved being a nurse. It was her passion. She was organized and smart, a bit of no-nonsense and compassionate. The perfect blend for a nurse. She landed her dream job in the emergency room not too long after graduating. She worked the evening shift with a resident ( MD in training) and an LPN or aide. Yes I said emergency room with a staff of three. But remember this was over 40 years ago. She had quite a few stories from those days but the two I remember the most, due to gore factor , was the one about the farmer and the one about the "meat cleaver guy". The farmer was from Berlin and he had been gouged in the eye by one of his bulls. My mother left no detail unturned but I will spare you, plus I am not writing on a full stomach. The other poor soul was a man from a New Britain meat packing company whose arm had gotten caught in the meat cleaver and they had to bring him in meat cleaver and all. She would tell these stories with a twinkle in her eye and really if you didn't know her well you might have wanted to move a step or two away.
I was admitted to a nursing program myself in 1990. I am not sure what possessed me. I think it was all the romance of those photos and the starched white uniforms, whatever it was it was soon evident that in this arena it was safe to say I was not my mother's daughter.
First semester in and I am wandering a hospital unit, looking for the charts to read up on the patient I would care for that morning. My clinical instructor grabbed me. She had a familiar twinkle in her eye as she told me about a "debridement of an decubitus ucler." Honestly just the sentence ran a slight tingle down the backs of my knees. She pointed me to room and gave a gentle push. Reluctantly I entered the room and found two doctors standing on either side of an elderly man's bed. The man was swearing up a storm and who could blame him. He was positioned on his side with his bottom out for all the world to see. His ulcer was indeed not a pretty site and one of the doctor's had already begun the process of debriding. Within seconds he hit a nice vascular spot and I hit the floor. Well, I didn't hit the floor since someone caught me half way down.
When I retold this story to my mother later that night she laughed. I am thinking ,though, that this worried her. I imagine the conversation between my parents that night as they got ready for bed:
Mom: "Really what are we going to do with her? She can't take a little blood?"
Dad: "She'll be fine. Maybe she'll get a desk job."
Another year in and on a weekday morning, as I turned my hair dryer off I could hear my mother yelling for me. It wasn't her usual calm,"hey the phone is for you" kind of call but a bit of panic laced her voice so I ran out to our small living room to find my mother on the carpet , face down. Her highly sensitive control on her wheelchair had gotten caught on her sleeve and her foot had gotten caught behind the small front wheel , sending her in catapult fashion out of her chair and onto the floor. Blood was coming from above her eyes. I started running in circles, complete taken over by panic. Really when I saw the blood I didn't know where to start or what to do. Very calmly from the floor where half of her face was obscured by carpet my mother told me to get a towel because the blood was going to ruin her carpet. When I got to the drawer in the kitchen she heard the drawer open and yelled,"From the rag basket!" So I ran down the hall to the rag basket. Only my mother would be more worried about what towel I was using then how much blood was coming out of her head. Once the blood was contained and her foot released and her face no longer kissing the carpet our next dilemma was to get her up off the floor. Me lifting her was not an option since she was about 5'10" and I was about 5'2" and 100 pounds after a bath. Calling for an ambulance would cause too much curiosity in the neighborhood so our other option was to check on our neighbors down the street. A house full of men. A dad and his four sons. And just my luck the oldest was home. When I told him what happened he was out his door and had my mother back in her chair before I could even catch up to him. He picked her up like a normal person would pick a penny off the ground. I loved those guys After thanking our neighbor we headed to the emergency room since the bleeding would not stop. On the way home, after watching me turn green and nearly passing out in the ER watching the resident stitch my mother up, my mom gave me some advice about avoiding ER nursing.
Many years into it now and I have some of my own stories. The elderly woman in Maryland who I found sitting covered in black vomit and I all but called a code until her many children explained to me it was just her "chew". She had missed her "spit cup". She had given me a toothless smile as if forgiving me for being such a Yankee. And the man in South Carolina who ran naked from room to room yelling about white horses chasing him. My stories aren't too gorey and I have always been honest in telling people I do not care for blood and body fluids, mine or anyone else's. My mother found my aversion amusing and liked to compare her ER days with my calm days as a school nurse. No comparison really. But we both managed to find that place in a crazy profession where we felt needed and content. And my mother being the person she was was happy when her daughters were happy, even if meant having a nice desk job.
My mom graduated from a hospital school of nursing program in 1956. Her yearbook is fabulous. We would sit and thumb through it together. That was the time when bed pans were made of stainless steel and intravenous bottles were made of glass. She would always point out the picture of her and a colleague standing with her favorite doctor. She had quite the crush but it happens to the best of us. But the best of us get smart and move on. Really it was all very romantic to me.
My mother loved being a nurse. It was her passion. She was organized and smart, a bit of no-nonsense and compassionate. The perfect blend for a nurse. She landed her dream job in the emergency room not too long after graduating. She worked the evening shift with a resident ( MD in training) and an LPN or aide. Yes I said emergency room with a staff of three. But remember this was over 40 years ago. She had quite a few stories from those days but the two I remember the most, due to gore factor , was the one about the farmer and the one about the "meat cleaver guy". The farmer was from Berlin and he had been gouged in the eye by one of his bulls. My mother left no detail unturned but I will spare you, plus I am not writing on a full stomach. The other poor soul was a man from a New Britain meat packing company whose arm had gotten caught in the meat cleaver and they had to bring him in meat cleaver and all. She would tell these stories with a twinkle in her eye and really if you didn't know her well you might have wanted to move a step or two away.
I was admitted to a nursing program myself in 1990. I am not sure what possessed me. I think it was all the romance of those photos and the starched white uniforms, whatever it was it was soon evident that in this arena it was safe to say I was not my mother's daughter.
First semester in and I am wandering a hospital unit, looking for the charts to read up on the patient I would care for that morning. My clinical instructor grabbed me. She had a familiar twinkle in her eye as she told me about a "debridement of an decubitus ucler." Honestly just the sentence ran a slight tingle down the backs of my knees. She pointed me to room and gave a gentle push. Reluctantly I entered the room and found two doctors standing on either side of an elderly man's bed. The man was swearing up a storm and who could blame him. He was positioned on his side with his bottom out for all the world to see. His ulcer was indeed not a pretty site and one of the doctor's had already begun the process of debriding. Within seconds he hit a nice vascular spot and I hit the floor. Well, I didn't hit the floor since someone caught me half way down.
When I retold this story to my mother later that night she laughed. I am thinking ,though, that this worried her. I imagine the conversation between my parents that night as they got ready for bed:
Mom: "Really what are we going to do with her? She can't take a little blood?"
Dad: "She'll be fine. Maybe she'll get a desk job."
Another year in and on a weekday morning, as I turned my hair dryer off I could hear my mother yelling for me. It wasn't her usual calm,"hey the phone is for you" kind of call but a bit of panic laced her voice so I ran out to our small living room to find my mother on the carpet , face down. Her highly sensitive control on her wheelchair had gotten caught on her sleeve and her foot had gotten caught behind the small front wheel , sending her in catapult fashion out of her chair and onto the floor. Blood was coming from above her eyes. I started running in circles, complete taken over by panic. Really when I saw the blood I didn't know where to start or what to do. Very calmly from the floor where half of her face was obscured by carpet my mother told me to get a towel because the blood was going to ruin her carpet. When I got to the drawer in the kitchen she heard the drawer open and yelled,"From the rag basket!" So I ran down the hall to the rag basket. Only my mother would be more worried about what towel I was using then how much blood was coming out of her head. Once the blood was contained and her foot released and her face no longer kissing the carpet our next dilemma was to get her up off the floor. Me lifting her was not an option since she was about 5'10" and I was about 5'2" and 100 pounds after a bath. Calling for an ambulance would cause too much curiosity in the neighborhood so our other option was to check on our neighbors down the street. A house full of men. A dad and his four sons. And just my luck the oldest was home. When I told him what happened he was out his door and had my mother back in her chair before I could even catch up to him. He picked her up like a normal person would pick a penny off the ground. I loved those guys After thanking our neighbor we headed to the emergency room since the bleeding would not stop. On the way home, after watching me turn green and nearly passing out in the ER watching the resident stitch my mother up, my mom gave me some advice about avoiding ER nursing.
Many years into it now and I have some of my own stories. The elderly woman in Maryland who I found sitting covered in black vomit and I all but called a code until her many children explained to me it was just her "chew". She had missed her "spit cup". She had given me a toothless smile as if forgiving me for being such a Yankee. And the man in South Carolina who ran naked from room to room yelling about white horses chasing him. My stories aren't too gorey and I have always been honest in telling people I do not care for blood and body fluids, mine or anyone else's. My mother found my aversion amusing and liked to compare her ER days with my calm days as a school nurse. No comparison really. But we both managed to find that place in a crazy profession where we felt needed and content. And my mother being the person she was was happy when her daughters were happy, even if meant having a nice desk job.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Hills
If you happened to drive past me this morning at about6:50, near my house you might have been wondering why I was moon walking. I wasn't . Believe me I was trying hard to go up and forward but by the time I had reached my house I had reached my last hill and my legs were begging for a break.
When we first moved out here we came from a pretty flat area. Urban. We lived close to everything, grocery store, pharmacy, mall, my parents. And running , although I did it very infrequently , was a breeze there was hardly a hill in sight. Then we moved out here and all I can say is that if I wanted to be that parent who told her kids she had to walk to school up hill both ways, I really wouldn't be making it up. It is impossible to get to our house with out hitting at least one steep hill. Just when you go down a hill and think you are in the clear you round a corner and there is another hill. My husband likes to joke that if a tsunami hits we are fine we'll just have water front property. Which makes me think of " Mrs Twiggly and her Tree House". A great children's book about an eccentric woman who lived in a tree house and all the townspeople made fun of her until there was a flood. And then everyone wanted to rent space from Mrs. Twiggly. People laugh at us I am sure but not because we live a on hill.
So as I am training for this half marathon I calculated how many miles I need to run each week to gradually get myself to 13 miles total. I started out at 2.5 miles on Main Street which is relatively flat. We have a group who runs together on whatever days we can manage. There are now about 10 of us but you will rarely see all 10 of us at once. We're all moms and we run at 6 am so sometimes someone oversleeps. Sometimes someone wakes up and realizes her family will be much better off if mommy gets one more hour of sleep then if she goes out and chases the rising sun. The great thing is there is almost always someone who wants to run. We moved off of Main Street once we realized what a pretty run it was near my girlfriend's house and so we established a loop that was 3 miles. A week or so later I overslept and decided to run in my own neighborhood, the one with all the hills. I took a left out of my driveway and started the first steep climb, cussing pretty much the whole way because it really is steep. I know I was running but I am sure it looked like drowning by asphalt to cars going by. I made it to the top and took another left and breathed a short sigh of relief because this was just a slow incline. I detoured through a new development, one small hill and was back onto flat running. This stays flat for awhile and then you get to go down hill. Of course around here once you go down you must go up. This is called Great Hill Rd. Really it is. So up Great Hill I went and then down Great Hill I went which then brought me to another left and another pretty flat surface which then brought me to the bottom of my road which then I realized I had given myself 4 hills to run up. It wasn't pretty. That hill is not pretty. But that loop got me to 4 miles which was very inspiring.
This morning there were no emails that shot around about running so I decided it was time to up the anty and try the group loop of 4 miles but start from my house which would add about 2 more miles. I jumped out of bed at 5:45 ( mostly because I heard the baby fussing and I knew if I was still in the house my chance of getting out once she was awake was slim to none). I hit the pavement and as usual cussed myself out for about the first mile. It really is the worst part. Maybe because my body really isn't ready yet and it is just screaming at my mind to stop and go back to bed. I ran downhill and around the bend and got just past the meeting place for the loop and saw ahead of me a pony tail bouncing and knew it was one of my running mates. She had a pretty good pace and was a bit ahead of me so I just kept running behind her. After we had passed the small red barn and the clump of beautiful horses who stand by the side of the road the distance between us had lessened. Probably because everyone, except for myself, can't stand the smell of those horses and it pretty much slows the best of them down. I gave her a shout and we finished the last big hill together. As we came to the spot where I would branch off and run up hill 4 times. I groaned. My friend laughed but it was a friendly, understanding kind of laugh. We separated and she gave me a shout of "power through, you can do it." I heard that in my head all the way up those 4 hills. That and a little "Boom Boom Pow" from the MP3 player and we get to my moon walking episode. It was not an attractive run. I am pretty certain "Kermit" made an encore presentation. I could picture that Frog on that high bicycle and just knew what my limbs must have looked like but I kept going until I reached my driveway. I think my vision blurred at one point because I was attacked by drool and a wet nose from our dog who I could have sworn was no where to be seen when I came up the hill.
Be that as it may, I have brought myself up to 6 miles, well okay 5 and about 3/4 of a mile but as my friend A . A would say "if it is close round up" and so round up I will and up and up and up.....
When we first moved out here we came from a pretty flat area. Urban. We lived close to everything, grocery store, pharmacy, mall, my parents. And running , although I did it very infrequently , was a breeze there was hardly a hill in sight. Then we moved out here and all I can say is that if I wanted to be that parent who told her kids she had to walk to school up hill both ways, I really wouldn't be making it up. It is impossible to get to our house with out hitting at least one steep hill. Just when you go down a hill and think you are in the clear you round a corner and there is another hill. My husband likes to joke that if a tsunami hits we are fine we'll just have water front property. Which makes me think of " Mrs Twiggly and her Tree House". A great children's book about an eccentric woman who lived in a tree house and all the townspeople made fun of her until there was a flood. And then everyone wanted to rent space from Mrs. Twiggly. People laugh at us I am sure but not because we live a on hill.
So as I am training for this half marathon I calculated how many miles I need to run each week to gradually get myself to 13 miles total. I started out at 2.5 miles on Main Street which is relatively flat. We have a group who runs together on whatever days we can manage. There are now about 10 of us but you will rarely see all 10 of us at once. We're all moms and we run at 6 am so sometimes someone oversleeps. Sometimes someone wakes up and realizes her family will be much better off if mommy gets one more hour of sleep then if she goes out and chases the rising sun. The great thing is there is almost always someone who wants to run. We moved off of Main Street once we realized what a pretty run it was near my girlfriend's house and so we established a loop that was 3 miles. A week or so later I overslept and decided to run in my own neighborhood, the one with all the hills. I took a left out of my driveway and started the first steep climb, cussing pretty much the whole way because it really is steep. I know I was running but I am sure it looked like drowning by asphalt to cars going by. I made it to the top and took another left and breathed a short sigh of relief because this was just a slow incline. I detoured through a new development, one small hill and was back onto flat running. This stays flat for awhile and then you get to go down hill. Of course around here once you go down you must go up. This is called Great Hill Rd. Really it is. So up Great Hill I went and then down Great Hill I went which then brought me to another left and another pretty flat surface which then brought me to the bottom of my road which then I realized I had given myself 4 hills to run up. It wasn't pretty. That hill is not pretty. But that loop got me to 4 miles which was very inspiring.
This morning there were no emails that shot around about running so I decided it was time to up the anty and try the group loop of 4 miles but start from my house which would add about 2 more miles. I jumped out of bed at 5:45 ( mostly because I heard the baby fussing and I knew if I was still in the house my chance of getting out once she was awake was slim to none). I hit the pavement and as usual cussed myself out for about the first mile. It really is the worst part. Maybe because my body really isn't ready yet and it is just screaming at my mind to stop and go back to bed. I ran downhill and around the bend and got just past the meeting place for the loop and saw ahead of me a pony tail bouncing and knew it was one of my running mates. She had a pretty good pace and was a bit ahead of me so I just kept running behind her. After we had passed the small red barn and the clump of beautiful horses who stand by the side of the road the distance between us had lessened. Probably because everyone, except for myself, can't stand the smell of those horses and it pretty much slows the best of them down. I gave her a shout and we finished the last big hill together. As we came to the spot where I would branch off and run up hill 4 times. I groaned. My friend laughed but it was a friendly, understanding kind of laugh. We separated and she gave me a shout of "power through, you can do it." I heard that in my head all the way up those 4 hills. That and a little "Boom Boom Pow" from the MP3 player and we get to my moon walking episode. It was not an attractive run. I am pretty certain "Kermit" made an encore presentation. I could picture that Frog on that high bicycle and just knew what my limbs must have looked like but I kept going until I reached my driveway. I think my vision blurred at one point because I was attacked by drool and a wet nose from our dog who I could have sworn was no where to be seen when I came up the hill.
Be that as it may, I have brought myself up to 6 miles, well okay 5 and about 3/4 of a mile but as my friend A . A would say "if it is close round up" and so round up I will and up and up and up.....
Friday, May 28, 2010
Running
My personal history with running can be said to have started in high school. It was not a glorious start. I went running with a girlfriend through a park the next town over. I am not sure how many laps we did. We may not have even completed once around before she started to pull ahead of me and I was cursing this bad idea. When she turned around to see just what had happened to me she stopped running and started laughing. You see apparently I had set the image of Kermit riding his bicycle in the "Muppet Movie". Just all flapping , gangly limbs it would seem. The nickname "Kermit" stuck through the next two years of high school. And to this day if someone yells Kermit I will turn to respond.
Next came my re-introduction to running by a college roommate who had thick brown hair , was a great athlete and carrying a double major of chemistry and biology. Needless to say I wanted to find something I could keep up with. So I started running with her. She had also explained the "adrenal rush" to me which sounded intriguing. And really that is when the real interest began. I didn't read books or magazines. I just laced up the sneakers, grabbed my boom box (...well my Walkman but for all accounts it felt that big) and went out the door.
During my 20's I ran quite a bit. I travelled for about 3 years , working in various states and would not know many people and the people I did become friends with usually were well ensconced in their lives. When I lived in New Jersey for a summer I met a fellow travel nurse who loved to run trails. I felt bad for her since we were after all in New Jersey. She assured me she had found a great trail and invited me along to try it out. I was hooked. I was also left in her dust. It became my goal to run that trail just like she did. She practically bounced off the ground missing rocks and fallen tree limbs like some kind of jack rabbit. By the end of summer I won't say I looked as graceful but I could have run that trail with my eyes closed. While living in South Carolina I worked mostly during the day and would run after work. I drove my route one afternoon to clock how many miles I was running. I watched with fascination as the odometer kept moving and when I reached my starting point it was a total of seven miles. The next week I signed up for a 5K. I did it in 23 minutes. Which for a girl who started out running like Kermit with all limbs a-flailing this was huge.
I kept running up until I got married. I am not sure why I stopped. I never ran to keep my weight down or keep my body in any kind of particular shape so perhaps I just let it fall away until I had forgotten how great it felt.
Two years ago I my husband suggested I run the Hartford Half Marathon with him. I scoffed at first since I had not had my running shoes on in some time, like about 7 years. But I thought "you're on,"laced up my sneakers and went out the door only to return panting and doubled over with a kink in my side. It did get better and the kink disappeared and it looked like I might even make it to the half marathon . Then we found out I was pregnant. There went running and just about any other form of recreation.
That baby is now 15 months old and time is again, however slight , on my side. A couple girlfriends invite me last fall to join their running group and once again those sneakers got laced up and I hit the road. I again have that half marathon in my sights. I have quite a ways to go. My mileage and the time I run it needs to improve by about double at this point but really for a mother of three I feel pretty good even making the attempt.
I emailed my husband a couple weeks back when I had clocked the run I had done that morning and the odometer kept climbing until it reached four miles and I was back in my driveway. I emailed him the distance and he emailed back:
"Run, Forest , run."
And that is just what I plan to do.
Next came my re-introduction to running by a college roommate who had thick brown hair , was a great athlete and carrying a double major of chemistry and biology. Needless to say I wanted to find something I could keep up with. So I started running with her. She had also explained the "adrenal rush" to me which sounded intriguing. And really that is when the real interest began. I didn't read books or magazines. I just laced up the sneakers, grabbed my boom box (...well my Walkman but for all accounts it felt that big) and went out the door.
During my 20's I ran quite a bit. I travelled for about 3 years , working in various states and would not know many people and the people I did become friends with usually were well ensconced in their lives. When I lived in New Jersey for a summer I met a fellow travel nurse who loved to run trails. I felt bad for her since we were after all in New Jersey. She assured me she had found a great trail and invited me along to try it out. I was hooked. I was also left in her dust. It became my goal to run that trail just like she did. She practically bounced off the ground missing rocks and fallen tree limbs like some kind of jack rabbit. By the end of summer I won't say I looked as graceful but I could have run that trail with my eyes closed. While living in South Carolina I worked mostly during the day and would run after work. I drove my route one afternoon to clock how many miles I was running. I watched with fascination as the odometer kept moving and when I reached my starting point it was a total of seven miles. The next week I signed up for a 5K. I did it in 23 minutes. Which for a girl who started out running like Kermit with all limbs a-flailing this was huge.
I kept running up until I got married. I am not sure why I stopped. I never ran to keep my weight down or keep my body in any kind of particular shape so perhaps I just let it fall away until I had forgotten how great it felt.
Two years ago I my husband suggested I run the Hartford Half Marathon with him. I scoffed at first since I had not had my running shoes on in some time, like about 7 years. But I thought "you're on,"laced up my sneakers and went out the door only to return panting and doubled over with a kink in my side. It did get better and the kink disappeared and it looked like I might even make it to the half marathon . Then we found out I was pregnant. There went running and just about any other form of recreation.
That baby is now 15 months old and time is again, however slight , on my side. A couple girlfriends invite me last fall to join their running group and once again those sneakers got laced up and I hit the road. I again have that half marathon in my sights. I have quite a ways to go. My mileage and the time I run it needs to improve by about double at this point but really for a mother of three I feel pretty good even making the attempt.
I emailed my husband a couple weeks back when I had clocked the run I had done that morning and the odometer kept climbing until it reached four miles and I was back in my driveway. I emailed him the distance and he emailed back:
"Run, Forest , run."
And that is just what I plan to do.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Some thoughts on turning 40
This morning my husband announced I have one more week of being 39. As though I truly needed a reminder. I love my birthday. The number means very little to me. He smiled at me though ,like he was getting to me. Carefully watching my reaction, gauging just how far he could push the topic. When I merely smiled at him his disappointment was palpable. His smile turned into a face of sheer wonder. Or perhaps it was awe.
"You really aren't bothered are you? It's just another birthday isn't it?" I smiled and answered" Yes but it is MY birthday."
This would bring us to "birthday week". The year I turned 26 was the first year I was to celebrate my birthday without the usual dinner with my parents. Yes I did say 26. I moved out of state just before my 26Th birthday and the usual dinner of a roast and mashed potatoes and Carvel ice cream cake would not be coming my way. I was living in Georgia and when it occurred to me I didn't have any family to celebrate with my first instinct was to buy a plane ticket and go home. But a nurses' schedule being what it is that really wasn't going to work. So I made the decision that instead of feeling sorry for myself because I didn't really have anyone to celebrate with me I would just celebrate myself. I turned one day into a week long self love fest. I did something nice for myself each day for a week before my birthday. Nothing really extravagant just simple like a day of total laziness, a day of hanging around a bookstore and buying whatever I wanted. I had requested my birthday off. One of my co-workers, who had quickly become a good friend called me late in the day and asked if I wanted to meet her and few people at Applebee's for a drink or two after they got out of work. I thought, great nice way to end my birthday!
When I got to the restaurant there they sat with an ice cream cake and balloons. Six people sitting around a table. All who had known me for less than a month, happy to help me celebrate.
This morning I was explaining to my girlfriends how I celebrate "birthday week". Turning 40 doesn't mean I have to amp it up and it doesn't mean I expect anything more from my birthday. I can have birthday week, just in less form that it used to take. I will have to arrange for babysitters if I want to go get a manicure or go shopping. But really it isn't even about spending money or treating myself. I like the idea of celebrating my being here, for however long it has been and how ever long it continues. My mother didn't go thorugh nine months to have me spending my life complaining that I am getting older. Getting older is just a fact. It is what you do with your time that matters most.
I still remember that birthday at Applebee's. And I remember many of my birthdays because somehow they have always managed to come with good friends and family somewhere near by and what is better than that?
"You really aren't bothered are you? It's just another birthday isn't it?" I smiled and answered" Yes but it is MY birthday."
This would bring us to "birthday week". The year I turned 26 was the first year I was to celebrate my birthday without the usual dinner with my parents. Yes I did say 26. I moved out of state just before my 26Th birthday and the usual dinner of a roast and mashed potatoes and Carvel ice cream cake would not be coming my way. I was living in Georgia and when it occurred to me I didn't have any family to celebrate with my first instinct was to buy a plane ticket and go home. But a nurses' schedule being what it is that really wasn't going to work. So I made the decision that instead of feeling sorry for myself because I didn't really have anyone to celebrate with me I would just celebrate myself. I turned one day into a week long self love fest. I did something nice for myself each day for a week before my birthday. Nothing really extravagant just simple like a day of total laziness, a day of hanging around a bookstore and buying whatever I wanted. I had requested my birthday off. One of my co-workers, who had quickly become a good friend called me late in the day and asked if I wanted to meet her and few people at Applebee's for a drink or two after they got out of work. I thought, great nice way to end my birthday!
When I got to the restaurant there they sat with an ice cream cake and balloons. Six people sitting around a table. All who had known me for less than a month, happy to help me celebrate.
This morning I was explaining to my girlfriends how I celebrate "birthday week". Turning 40 doesn't mean I have to amp it up and it doesn't mean I expect anything more from my birthday. I can have birthday week, just in less form that it used to take. I will have to arrange for babysitters if I want to go get a manicure or go shopping. But really it isn't even about spending money or treating myself. I like the idea of celebrating my being here, for however long it has been and how ever long it continues. My mother didn't go thorugh nine months to have me spending my life complaining that I am getting older. Getting older is just a fact. It is what you do with your time that matters most.
I still remember that birthday at Applebee's. And I remember many of my birthdays because somehow they have always managed to come with good friends and family somewhere near by and what is better than that?
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