Races

Friday, December 12, 2014

Movement

I'm wearing big girl pants now! Find me over here to read more verbal diarrhea:

www.suzyhastheruns.com


Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Woozy Wednesday: Jericho

I picked my favourite red wine for its artsy label. I don't know a thing about wine. I've never been to a winery, I've never read up about it and I've never once cared to. I know that I don't like white wine because it tastes like chilled crotch rot. But red? Divine. It tastes like creation, like sex and poetry. It blows my trumpet and brings down my walls.

Bear Flag Red Wine Blend from California
A few years ago, my dreads and I paraded into the liquor store and gravitated to this bottle for its colourful design. Most likely I brought it home and shared it with Jane cross-legged on the polka dot rug of the room with the orange walls and the prayer flags. What do I say about it? How do I describe it? It pairs well with chocolate and wet faces from laughter and heartache. It chases down dreams and settles into the crevices of earth not yet discovered. We tip toe around it with our first glass cradled with ladylike fingertips and then back-flip into it all with our second. Shy eyes, break bread, hold hands, nod heads.


 

Monday, December 8, 2014

Mileage Monday

Seattle Marathon: Andrew's Race Recap

Race weekend was freezing. We got to our hotel on the Saturday and couldn't even really walk around with Callum because it was too cold. There was another marathon that morning and those runners had to run through a blizzard, freezing rain and gale winds. By Saturday night it had cleared up but the temps were still frigid. Luckily we were able to stay warm in our hotel where Andrew got to meet Robbie Keane from the LA Galaxy!


We bundled up on race day morning and headed to the start line. Andrew was nervous, but so ready to get it done.


Callum and I navigated around the city and somehow lucked out enough to catch Andrew a few times along the course. Here he is at around 8 miles. He already had a huge blister on the bottom of his feet!

 

We caught him again at mile 12 and then again at the bottom of the huge hill at mile 21. He looked strong every time I saw him and was on pace to finish in his goal time of around 4:30. Here he is coming into the stadium at the finish line...


And then I snatched this photo proof from the marathon photographers of him crossing the line. I love the emotion on his face.


The marathon has a way of peeling back our layers, the walls that we put up to trick everyone (mostly ourselves) into thinking we're strong. And then we enter the marathon and all of a sudden our false sense of strength and security melt away and we're left with the core of who we are. That's what crosses the finish line: that part of us that holds strong through the most trying of times. The part that makes it through sick kids and sleepless nights. The part that survives divorce and the death of a loved one. The part that picks up litter and puts it in the trash can when nobody else is watching. That's who crosses the finish line of a marathon. People who are strong enough to be humbled.


Friday, December 5, 2014

BFF: Connect Eight

Andrew talked about this a couple of weeks ago on his vlog, that no matter how many square feet of living space we have, our kids always seem to follow us around the house and cram into whatever room we're in.

We picked this home for the reasons that it had enough bedrooms to accommodate our blended family of eight as well as the advantage of having a rec room in the basement for where the kids could all hang out together (read: GIVE US FIVE MINUTES OF PEACE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD). Yeah, sure, they hang out downstairs in the rec room from time to time to play gruesome murder video games or to have the occasional standoff at air hockey, but for the most part they're well, wherever we are. And yes, that includes the toilet.

Andrew and I were cooing at Callum while he was splashing in the bathtub (Callum, not Andrew) and then Freddy sauntered in to ask me to look over his math worksheets. Shortly after that Katie waltzed in to get me to sign her planner for school and then Ethan followed them both in to see what the fuss was about. So at one time we had six people all crammed into our bathroom, happily, which was nice, as nobody was fighting at that particular moment so we can't really complain. But STILL.

I just think it's so ironic that people search high and low for that perfect home with an added rec room or space to accommodate a play area for the kids but then once we're settled, that play area becomes cold and drenched in the cobwebs of un-use.

I guess it just proves that humans are created for communion, for connection. That as we grow older, through years of experience and pain and hurt we start to put up emotional barriers and isolate ourselves further into independence. Being alone is not how we are wired but instead how we are misfired. It's not right. It's off. And so we constantly yearn for that connection but with our arms protectively outstretched in a manner of stay away, not too close, and then before too long we are alone in our mancave or alone in our living room and we wonder why our children, our own primal beings follow us into the bathroom where they can just breathe in the air we breathe out.

And we wonder why. But we know. Because at the core of who we are, we want that too.




Wednesday, December 3, 2014

Woozy Wednesday: Puzzle Pieces

I was never into bars or clubs and 90% of my pub appearances have been at Andrew's side. I attribute it to my wardrobe; jeans and tee shirts with cats wearing sunglasses on the front just aren't conducive to the bar scene.


Also, I'm old. And also, I get overstimulated with all the people and music and drinks and conversation. There is so much chaos in my day-to-day life that in my free time nothing sounds more blissful to me than sitting in a corner, drooling and starting at a white wall.

I love being alone. I grew up in a big house, my two sisters 8 and 10 years older than me and so a lot of the time I was left to my own devices.


Quite like an only child, I learned how to entertain myself. I would read books for hours on end until I couldn't physically keep my eyes open. I started running when I was 13, not in a track club or running group but by myself. I played solitaire card games on our camping trips. I'm not complaining because I loved it!

Long-distance running does it for me. It gives me that solitude that my soul craves, that respite from the people, the music, the drinks and conversation. But I have to say that I am learning something about myself, that while it's okay to be alone for a time, it doesn't need to be as much as possible. Rather than escaping to Costco by myself, I turn the van around and pick Andrew and Callum for company. Is it more work? Yep. But it's worth it because I'm better when they're with me, when I'm with them.

I guess that's what happens when you find your partner for life. They get called "the other half" for that reason right there, that we feel severed without them, the open-ended part of our beings left shivering and exposed. I hate it. I was SO FINE without that man. It's frustrating. Ha.

Anyway, so on Friday night Lora and I went for a run and then to the pub for some dinner and drinks and I sat there across from her and felt that pull, that shivery and exposed feeling and finally at some point my eyes filled up with tears and I told her, "I just want to go home. I need Andrew." And that was the end of our night.

I'm not saying it's not okay and healthy and right to be on my own with girlfriends from time to time. No! Not at all! But for me, just for me personally, I don't like being at a pub without my husband. There is just something about that scene that beckons me to be completed with locked eyes, fingers intertwined and stolen little knowing glances with my man. He drives me crazy sometimes, but he's my missing puzzle piece. And I don't want to walk into the bar or pub scene without him.


Monday, December 1, 2014

Mileage Monday

It was Seattle Marathon week for Andrew so while he tapered, I gobbled up the leftover miles like Pac-Man. Ideally I would like to do one 20-mile run per month. Twenty is the magic number as far as optimizing fitness, preparing the body and mind for a marathon, but also keeping it at a level where quick recovery is possible. Anything over 20 miles and I'm wiped out for a couple of days. I was able to squeeze in a 20 miler on Monday, topping out at 70 miles for the week while fitting in a rest day on Saturday!

Monday: My life isn't conducive to planning out runs so when the opportunity presents itself, I jump on it. I left Andrew in charge of Callum's naptime, and after I dropped Katie off at school I headed out for 20 miles. I did one loop of 14 miles, had a water break (and kept my watch running) and then finished it off with 6 miles. I was able to do it in a respectable 2:36. Then it was home, shower, and life goes on.

Tuesday: A recovery 7 miles on the therapymill followed by some stretching.

Wednesday: What a gross morning. Callum woke up at 5am. UGH! So when I put him down for his nap, I knew he'd sleep for a long time so I watched Netflix and ran 13 miles on the treadmill. But then later on, we had a free night to ourselves so after Andrew went for a run, I took off outside in the dark (my favourite time to run) for 5 miles. Then we went to El Nopal!

Thursday: I met Lora for a 10 miler along the dyke out here. We went slow and talked and solved the world's problems. They all grew back like chia by the time we got to our cars but hey. At least we had an hour of peace.

Friday: I was at home with a million kids and their friends all day so I was extremely ready to go for a run the second Andrew came home. Except Callum decided to go poo while he was playing in the bathtub so I spent some time scrubbing the tub out with lavender-scented Lysol. I guess I got it on my finger (not poo, the Lysol) because while I ran, I'd blow my nose into my glove and smell chemicals. Typical Friday night, I suppose.

Saturday: Rest Day! Drove down to Seattle for the marathon.

Sunday: Andrew powered through his second marathon in 4:32, taking 22 minutes off his previous time from only 3 months ago! Race re-cap next week.

Friday, November 28, 2014

Held Back

Freddy got diagnosed with a blood disorder when he was just over one year old. He got a cold, which turned into a cough which turned into pneumonia and his little body was working too hard making red blood cells to even remotely fight the pneumonia. It's a rare hereditary blood disorder, and I'm so thankful that it hasn't affected his life too much. Once in a while when his body can't keep up with the rapid rate of red blood cell destruction, we bring him to the hospital for blood work and if need be, transfusions.

There's this image in my mind. No, it's in not just in my mind, it's in the gap between my skin and memory, my senses and instincts. That space that juts out into our lives whether we want it to or not like a sharp rock between here and there, a space where we can either stand upon or lose ourselves on. And it's of Freddy's tiny toddler body, bound in a hospital bed sheet in a way that kept him still enough to give blood for tests. He was too young to understand that we bound him to help him. He fought hard against us, against the binding force, his iron will flexing and pushing, the angst inside his body practically bursting through his skin and all I could do was stand there and helplessly watch him fight.

I've seen this scene manifest in different ways with each child. It's not a hospital sheet, in an emergency room. It's on a couch. It's in the backseat of the van. It's in a restaurant, it's at home. It's here and there and everywhere in between but to me, it looks the same, that my child's angst is practically bursting through their skin and all I can do is stand there and helplessly watch them fight.

I want to unzip the gap, gather my babies in my arms and duck us all down beneath the great divide between here and there, stand upon that rock, and know peace. And know peace. To close up the unknown and lie still in the safety of love where there is no pain, there is no fight, there is no angst.

But then we wouldn't move forward.




BFF: Heat Rises


Parenting step children is different than parenting biological children because we tend to be harder on our own DNA. Ethan will, say, burp out loud at the table and I'll give him a stern look and an obligatory, "Eeeeeethannnn." Whereas if Freddy were to do it, I'd freak out at him a lot more. This can get tricky because from the outside it looks like I'm favouring my stepkids whereas all I'm doing is waiting for the discipline to match the relationship.

We see a family counselor to help us with healthy family management and he told us that discipline without relationship can be destructive. That the relationship needs to be at the same level as the discipline level. The first level (babysitters, distant aunts, etc) is where kids get away with farts and saying "shut up" and eating whipping cream and chocolate chips for dinner. Instead of being banished to their rooms for such behaviour, they are allowed to stay up late watching movies with swear words. But in this level there is also not a whole lot of bonding, or relationship.

As the levels climb we find more long-term type relationships with more conflict, but more hugs (grandparents, close family and friends). Each decision these caregivers make regarding their relationship with the kids has an impact on their lives forever--not just the next hour and a half. So they invest more energy into helping them grow into healthy people, even if it means a little discipline here and there. This is where the kids are forced to eat their vegetables, where they're disciplined for talking back, and reprimanded for farting at the table. But it's also where the caregivers show up to soccer games in the wind and rain during the only free time they've had all week. It's where the kids know they're safe enough to cry and pour out their hearts.

The parents are found in the top levels. This is where we find the most love, and the most mess. Poopy diapers don't make us gag because in this level, love dulls the stink. It's in these parts where there is a divide between a stepparent and a biological parent but over time, this is also where the most growth happens. It's a delicate balance on a relational tightrope and one false move can cause a lot of pain. But as we wade through each mess together, if we handle it well, we become closer and closer.





Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Woozy Wednesday: Shades of Green

I was pregnant with Freddy when we decided to get another kitten. There was a sweet little blue point Himalayan available in Vancouver, so we drove out there to meet our new family member. She lived with her people in this eclectic, super funky house and they had the coolest interior decor. But in the corner, surrounded by shelves of books and a humble side table was this shiny lime green chair, and I fell in love. The people promised me that if they ever moved and had to get rid of it, they'd phone me first. They didn't. And it's been what, twelve years? And I'll never get it out of my head. But I'll find it one day, ohhhhh I'll find it.

When I am 80 years old and sitting gnarled up in my green pleather armchair, I will look back at my life and think three things: 1) what the fuckitty fuck was THAT, 2) thank you Jesus Santa God for underwire bras and 3) even at the cost of my pride, there are just some things I will never regret. Like for instance, the time my kids' principal picked up my lacy underwear, or when I started the Seattle marathon at the half marathon time and ended up getting passed by all the Olympians like a fat kid on sports day. And the best of the best, the night that Melody and I knitted mustaches and dressed up like Dave Babych and went to one of his games.


The night started out innocently enough. I knitted up a couple of brown mustaches and brought some plain white tee shirts over to Melody's house where we cracked open some lime green coolers (MISTAKE OF THE CENTURY) and proceeded to draw images of Dave on our shirts. I grew up watching the Canucks with my dad, and Babych was one of my favourites because he wasn't everyone else's favourite. He was a tough guy with a mustache. He was original. I liked him.

I love the masking tape peeking out behind my mustache
We showed up at the game in our garb and Babych was incredulous that we'd be his superfans that night. He skated over and got his picture taken with us which was later publicized in the paper. It was a fun night. But when we got home, I couldn't stomach that sugary neon lime green drink anymore. It was so disgusting.

I guess I'm a purist. If I'm going to have a drink, I'll drink wine or beer, but vodka sugar bombs make my knees buckle. The only funky lime green element that belongs in my life is that coveted pleather chair.


Monday, November 24, 2014

Mileage Monday

I hit 60 again this week but it was a lot harder this week than last. I'm guessing it's the sinus infection and the accompanying antibiotics.

Monday: I squeaked in a four miler on the treadmill while Callum napped and then later on in the day, when Andrew got home from his long-ish run of 14 miles, I parked the van at Katie's school and ran a hilly six around there before pick-up.

Tuesday: I did five on the treadmill in the morning, and then we went Christmas shopping where Callum had his first picture taken with Santa. Then I took off for another five outside in the dark while Andrew had Callum. I felt incredibly strong that night, for some reason! I love running at night.


Wednesday: A boring seven miles on the therapymill while Callum napped. I really need to find a new movie or show on Netflix to help pass the time. Suggestions?

Thursday: I ran eight miles on the treadmill again during naptime, but I had ZERO entertainment as Andrew was using my phone to record his vlog.

Friday:  Well, THIS was an interesting run. Lora and I went into Fort Langley where we used to run all the time years ago, but we started at around 4 o'clock right when it was getting dark. We parked by the pub and as we were getting our stuff together in the van, these two teenage boys came up to the Lora's side and knocked on the window. I thought they were in trouble so I un-did the window a bit. One of the punkasses reached into the van and asked for some money to which I replied, "NO!" and promptly put the window back up...on his finger. So his buddy starts yelling, and I undo the window and free his finger. But the pinched finger guy starts opening up my van door so I ABSOLUTELY LOST MY MIND on them. I whipped open my van door and started after them and they took off. I'm not exactly sure what I was going to do if I caught them, but I can use my imagination. My teenagers are much, MUCH better people. Anyway, Lora and I did seven miles in the pitch blackness with our hearts pounding with fear, and with the trail sprinkled with deer. Nice. It rhymed.

Saturday: I did twelve miles outside and I really struggled through them.

Sunday: I punctuated the week with an outside six miler to make it an even sixty for the week.


Saturday, November 22, 2014

Nutella on the Light Switch

Do jerks know they're jerks? Like, when someone does something really awful and mean or stupid or lazy, do they know it whether or not they admit it? And let's say they deny it. They deny that they said something mean or did something stupid. Is it up to us to let them know that we know even if they won't admit it? Is it up to us to call them out? Because will they really be receptive to us? I say no. Because if they were receptive to us then they would be self-aware enough to know that acted like jerks in the first place. 

Calling them out is a waste of time. Maybe it will make us feel better in the moment but it does nothing to change them or their behaviour. Only they are in charge of their choices; we can only control our reactions to them. If they're ever going to admit they screwed up it will be on their own clock, not ours. And ironically, by us calling them out, we tend to delay any chances of them changing anyway.

I have a guilty pleasure. I love it when Callum wakes up in the middle of the night to nurse because then I can come downstairs in the peace and quiet, sit at the table and have a snack. When he sleeps through the night, I'll wake up in the morning and feel a bit ripped off that I didn't get the chance to have that secret alone time. I usually have a bowl of cereal or some yogurt and granola but last night I had a plate of crackers and Nutella (chocolate hazelnut spread). This morning I went into the pantry to grab some stuff for breakfast and I noticed a smear of Nutella on the light switch and it made me think of what I was saying before about when people are jerks. That whatever we do, however we act and whatever we say always comes back around. We think just because we deny that we did anything wrong, that it must mean that we didn't do anything wrong. That if we eat Nutella in the dark, that when morning comes it will be as if it never happened.

But both always leave a mark.


Friday, November 21, 2014

BFF: Wobble

Having children spread out from the ages of fourteen to infant presents all sorts of challenges (and opportunities, depending on the mood du jour and whether or not we have any Coronas in the fridge). As you can imagine, it's a huge transition for our older kids to have a baby brother come along later in life after all the other changes they've been through: divorce, remarriage, and moving (houses, cities, schools). While they all love him to bits and fight over who gets to hold him and give him kisses, it hasn't always been easy. Never mind the fact that my body feels one hundred years old compared to how I felt when I had Jake at twenty-two.

Parenting a baby and a fourteen year-old and all the ages in between can be a juggling act at best (an all-out circus act most days, but without the beer tents and bikinis). However, despite the age gaps there are a lot of parallels. Callum is learning how to stand on his own, which is super cute. His chubber legs weeble and wobble and he ever so slowly loosens his grip on my fingers and lets go. When I hold onto him he almost swats at me, batting me away from his independence. Go away, mom. I've got this. But when he stumbles, I catch him. When he hurts, I hold him.


The older kids are the same way as their emotions jerk and sway through this huge world. They wear shirts with bikini babes printed on the front. They dye their hair green, practice the "F" word, and tell each other to shut up. Jake is literally sitting beside me right now begging for thirty British pounds to buy a membership to the Iron Maiden fan club. I seriously think they wake up each day for the sole purpose of halting our circulatory systems.

They ever so slowly loosen their grip on our fingers and let go. When I hold onto them, they almost swat at me, batting me away from their independence. Go away, mom. We've got this. But when they stumble, I catch them. When they hurt, I hold them.




Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Woozy Wednesday: The Darker Side of Winter

I believe that we are all born with a disposition toward something whether it be depression or anxiety, OCD, or some other underlying burbling of "here it comes if you don't watch out." This disposition gently nudges us against gravity and then something comes along like a divorce or a miscarriage or something else tragic and WHAM we fall backward into its abyss. It doesn't have to be a disease or a disorder, no. That's not what I'm saying. It could be something as harmless as a passion for shopping or applying makeup. But when acute stress tips the scale, all of a sudden we've spent thirty thousand dollars on welcome mats and blush.

I have an underlying anxiety disorder. I was medicated for a while, and I'm open to meds if I ever need them again, but for now I'm able to manage my anxiety levels with the knowledge gained from counseling and therapy, and the catharsis of distance running. And of course, hugs from my husband, who smells like home and holds me and heals the dry cracked parts of my heart.

The winter months tend to have an adverse affect on me; I'm not a fan. I like Christmas and stuff, like, when all the kids are in bed and Andrew and I are a bit tipsy on Spanish coffees, making out on the couch in front of the lit tree. I appreciate those nights. But the cold, dreary, dark rainy winters of the West Coast have a way of hacking into my brain, clearing out all of my rationality and then setting up insanity camp. Kill me now, and then raise me up in Spring with a Corona and a bottle of coconut-scented SPF 4.

However, about two years ago I had my first taste of Granville Island Winter Ale and I've been obsessed with it ever since. Beer is not necessarily my "thing." It makes me feel all bloaty, and I have a hard time eating food when I'm drinking beer because of all the fizz. So I'll often drink it after a run with Lora or on a super hot summer day, so that the heat can metabolize the liquid a bit faster and then I'm able to stuff some nachos and wings down the hatch just that much easier.

But I puffy heart Winter Ale. It's a darker chocolately beer that goes really well with being alive. Some people wait with baited breath for pumpkin spice lattes but me? I'd way rather overpay for a beer than a coffee.






Monday, November 17, 2014

Mileage Monday

Lora recently texted me: "If heartache was a physical pain I could take it."

Running converts emotional pain into functional energy. Correct me if I'm wrong, but there is more emotional pain at the start line of an ultra endurance event than at the alter of a church. We keep trying to convert it over, pushing the pain through the emotional/physical barrier, but no matter how much pain we put ourselves through, we merely sweat blood. All that the physical pain does is temporarily distract us from the heartache. It gives our hearts a rest and sometimes that's all we need to keep breathing, to keep moving forward.

I'm not really in a lot of pain. Running ultras doesn't demand a history of abuse or neglect; it simply calls forth the sensitive souls, the empaths, the ones who carry too much of everyone else's shit in their own suitcases. I've often tugged at my hair and wailed, "I just don't want to feeeeeel so much anymore!!!" And then what do I do? I run it out. Or, at least I try. All I know is that I feel a whole lot better after a run than I do after four crown and cokes. Both result in a bit of nausea, sweating and chaffing, but nevertheless, the run just works better for me.

Here's my weekly mileage: 60 big ones.

Monday: A slothy 7 miles on the treadmill during Callum's morning nap. I tried to watch a movie but it was stupid. Ah well, got 'er done.

Tuesday: No school today, so I left the big kids in charge and took off for 8 miles while Callum slept. It was freeeeezing, and the wind was relentless. My mom came over later and I joined Andrew for 6 miles of his 21 mile training run. He did really well, especially considering the wind and cold.

Wednesday: 5 miles on the therapymill while the chubby kid napped.

Thursday: I watched the first half of the movie "Almost Famous" while doing 10 miles on the treadmill. LOVE that movie. Love love love love.

Friday: I started watching the rest of the movie on the treadmill but then Andrew came home to do some work and print things off so I decided to cut my run short (5 miles) and have lunch with him. And then I scored some free time later on and decided to finish my day with 8 miles outside in the freezing but beautiful temps. I even paused to watch the sun go down.


Saturday: 5 miles on the treadmill, keeping an eye on the MOST DISGUSTING SPIDER IN THE UNIVERSE.

Sorry Jen!!!
Sunday: 6 miles on the treadmill. The spider is gone. Please baby Jesus let it be not in the house.

I'm dying to run another marathon, but I can't until the C man is weaned from the boobies. Until then, I'm going to keep hammering out as many miles as possible. My dream is to take my current PR of 3:10 to a sub-3 hour marathon. We'll see.


Friday, November 14, 2014

BFF: Dig Deep

Everyone seems to think they want to be a tree: tall and strong and grounded. But trees are so pretentious. Everyone ooohs and ahhhs over the tree. Oh, its leaves! Oh, its branches! Look at the glorious tree against the blue sky! Look at the magnificent tree supporting the beautiful birds! Look at the life of it all!

But what holds the tree up so that the tree can get all this glory?

The roots.

The roots that bend and twist with the pressures of the earth, compromising their intentions, making the best of situations. When the rains come and the winds roar, they dig themselves in and hold on. With each passing year as the tree grows in stature and wonder, the roots wind deeper and deeper into the depths of the earth, hidden even more so from any sort of recognition. They get trampled on and tripped over and cursed at.

When I played for Trinity Western University's varsity soccer team they had just started out--I believe I joined in their second year in the league. I vividly remember the hot, sticky van rides home from the game after losing 10-0 where the whole lot of us would be red-faced and scowling with contempt at our defeat. Pat, our head coach, would tell us over and over again to keep our chins up because in the big picture, TWU would one day be national champions and this team needed us because we were the roots. That's what he'd say after each game, on each van ride: "you girls are the roots of something huge, I can feel it."

We worked our asses off but you know what? We were the roots. Everything exceptional has to start somewhere. TWU went on to win a bunch of national whatevers. I don't care, because I'm jealous. But the point is, is that the roots are important. Overlooked, but important.

That's what a mother is: the roots. We are in the audience. We are backstage. We are alone in our homes, propping up pictures of our kids against the walls, nailing them in, lifting them up, while they're out doing something great, something important. We carry them, push them, hold them up, and guide them out, digging deep into the earth, drawing upon our surrounding strength.

photo by Jake VanDyck
But this is what I live for, when I feel so broken and bruised that my heart is bending back against itself. I dig deep and live for the day that my cracked and twisted skin can look up and see our kids wild and free, elbowing their way through the weather, gloriously alive.











Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Woozy Wednesday: Strength in Numbers (of drinks)

Self-regulate. Have you ever heard that term? I'm not sure where I picked it up but I say it often. It refers to the process of moving from the feeling of being totally exposed, suspended in mid-air and freaked right out toward the feeling of having our feet planted firmly into the ground, chin up, chest open and strong. We self-regulate several times a day without even realizing it.

Being naked tends to demand self-regulation. Think back to how you last felt at the beach or at the pool when you had to peel your clothes off down to your bathing suit and parade yourself down to the water's edge. How did you get there? You self-regulated. You told yourself that your body is just fine, that nobody is looking, or that the size of your ass is exciting and your husband is enjoying the wobble. You gave yourself grace, you let yourself be, and you made it to the water.

Anyway.

What does this have to do with Woozy Wednesday? Have you heard of the term, "liquid confidence?" It's self-regulation in disguise. It's an imposter. However, it comes in handy when we need to cross over into uncharted territory like our first nude beach experience, or when we're asked to MC at a wedding. Sometimes we need to be under the influence of a boozy drink to take all our clothes off and march our fat white asses to the ocean just to get a notch on our (imaginary) belt so that next time it will be that much easier.

But I'll tell you that my favourite night ever was when Tracey and I sang karaoke at a bar on Davie Street and I had not one drink before I got up to sing "Waking Up in Vegas" because I wanted to develop that mental muscle that helps me self-regulate.

For the majority of the population, the self-regulation muscle is a lot weaker than our beer-pouring muscles. But hey. I don't judge.

Andrew started this project where he's going to post video blogs on Facebook every Friday for the next three months. He's terrified, and so with much encouragement and tequila shots, he successfully completed his first post. It will be up on Friday.

May your liquid confidence be rapidly replaced by the strength of self-regulation, and when it is, send us your leftovers.

Tequila!



Monday, November 10, 2014

Mileage Monday

I hit 60 miles this week, which shocks me a little bit because I have no idea how I fit it all in. I get asked that question a lot, how I manage these many miles when I lead such a full life and the only answer I can come up with is that I simply make time. Running is how I deal with my anxiety and stress levels and so it's more of a priority than say, painting my nails and blow-drying my hair, or watching whatever shows everyone else watches and talks about on Facebook. Pretty much, I'd way rather walk around looking like a swamp donkey and having got my run in than sitting in Starbucks on Facebook with shiny white sneakers and a fresh set of fake nails. Anyway. Did I convincingly justify my addiction? 

Monday- 7 miles on the treadmill while watching the movie "Enough Said." This is the first time I've ever watched a movie while running, and while I went really super slow, it worked for me. I really liked the movie, and I logged some miles. Win, win.

Tuesday- 11 miles on the treadmill during Callum's nap.  I watched the rest of "Enough Said" and some YouTube videos. Still really slow, but I got it done.

Wednesday- I headed out for a long run but while I was out there, Andrew phoned me to ask when I'd be home because he had the chance to do his long run that day and needed to get started in time to get it done before the sun went down. So I cut it short at 8 miles and then did 4 miles on the treadmill later on when the kids went to bed.

Thursday- My hip is jammed. I know this because it's a chronic problem and I can tell when it happens--my hamstring gets all buggered up and when I run it feels like I'm dragging my leg. So I ran 5 miles and made a massage appointment for Friday.

Friday- My massage therapist Brent fixed me all up and told me not to run on it and to see him next week, so I only ran 5 miles with Lora that night in the trails, in the dark. It was actually a really stupid thing to do, but we didn't get raped or mauled by a bear, so I guess it worked out okay.

Saturday- Lora texted me in the morning and we met super early and knocked out 7 miles before I could even think better of it.

Sunday- I wanted to hit 13 so that I could make a solid 60 for the week, so while Andrew ran outside, and while Callum was sleeping, I ran 5 on the treadmill. Then we hit Kylah's soccer game in Burnaby, came home and I ran 8 miles outside before our date night at El Nopal.

Now Andrew and I are sitting here on the couch while Callum sleeps soundly in bed and we're talking about his last long run this week: 21 miles tomorrow. Seattle is a tough route with a huge hill at about mile 20, so I'm setting him up for a a solid hilly route that mimics race day. Probably a good thing he's not running until tomorrow, seeing as we our El Nopal date night last night.

Happy Running!




Sunday, November 9, 2014

Communion

Tonight's journal entry, bravely copied and pasted here for the world to see. I hope my writing helps you more than it hinders me. I hope my transparency inspires vulnerability and therefore love. That's my hope.

This is my safe zone, a place where I don't have to edit who I am and so tonight, with the candle's flames licking my eyes, glazed over from too little sleep and too much emotional drama, I put down my running shoes and instead, I write. Pearl Jam's "Garden" and a small cup of scotch keeps me warm, but my toes still tattle on the chill of adrenalin in my body.

Marriage is hard. Blended family life is harder. I am a strong woman, and even my own knees sway from time to time after a gust of whatthefuck passes through. I actually don't even know where to start except to say that if I learn anything from this season of my life, besides all the practical knowledge I'm stocking up on in regards to blended families, divorces, second marriages, stepkids, etc etc, it's that everyone has a story. Everyone has pain of some sort burbling below the surface. It's either old pain or new, scabbed over or fresh, but it's there.

And we have two choices: either go it alone, or go it with other(s). And although being alone certainly has its place in my life, I do know that I want love. I need connection. And that being closed off and pretending everything is perfect is not the way to get it.

This is. Being vulnerable and open and receptive. And no, I don't need a bunch of head-petting and casseroles, no. I just need to be heard. And then I want to hear you back, and then I want to run.



Friday, November 7, 2014

BFF: The Textbook

Just like everyone else, when I first became a parent I didn't have a clue what I was doing. We don't get manuals with children. It's like we're given a map to where we are going and then all of a sudden we find ourselves in New Mexico with bum rash and a missing finger. It's not much different when we become stepparents. I can't count how many times I've asked myself, "where's the textbook?"

There is none. I mean, there are books that we can read and people we can ask about the cold, hard facts of any kind of parenting but figuring out humans is much more complex than following a recipe. What works for one combination of people won't work for another. We typically need to feel around in the dark and just do whatever works to help us get around. And even that tactic can change from person to person, day to day, moment to moment.

So all I can really share is what works for me, which happens to apply to all of our kids, biological and step.

The first and most important? Love them. I love them when I don't feel like it, when they need me to. I love them against wind and through fire when it burns and bends my body until it breaks and heals and breaks again. I love them under water can't breathe give them all the oxygen love. I love them when they hate me, when they interrupt my sleep, when I give too much and have nothing left. I keep loving them.

And then I laugh. There are more awkward moments in a blended family school function than at a grade 9 dance. If we can't laugh at ourselves (not at each other... that's the next rule), then we won't survive.

Be kind. Any of my kids will tell you that I say this to them all the time: that we are hard enough on ourselves; we don't need anyone to help us. And that when we say something hurtful to someone, it says more about who we are than who they are. We are to never speak poorly of each other, especially our ex-spouses. Save it for counseling, or the running trails, or whatever. Saying shitty stuff about people just makes us shitty people.

And lastly, fart together. Compare them. Do them and lock the windows of the car and laugh. Let a hot one go and walk into the room while they're watching a movie then plunk down a bowl of treats so they're stuck there, and then leave. Farting brings people together because it crosses cultures, generations, stepparents or biological. And if I ever get to write the textbook, I will be including this chapter, with a CD.



Wednesday, November 5, 2014

Woozy Wednesday: Split Wiener

It was a chilly night in January, snowflakes dancing slowly through obstacles, making their way down to the ground. Andrew was over and we were keeping warm inside, drinking wine and planning out our night. We were going to be taking a cab to the Fort Pub to meet his colleague and his wife for supper.

The taxi dropped us off at the curb and, after spotting the couple seated at the window with the pub filled to the brim with people behind them, Andrew proceeded to press his bare bum against the cold, snowy glass.

We made our way to their table and ended up having a great time eating and drinking and comparing outrageous life stories containing all sorts of incriminating evidence that will never leave those pub doors. We experimented with shots, hydrated with beer and sipped on wine. At one point Andrew and I both got up to visit the loo and when we tried to reenact a previous romantic moment outside of the bathroom doors, we opted out as we both felt like we might be sick. Not exactly romantic.

Once our fun night came to a close, Steve offered to give us a lift home as he hadn't been drinking. He has a vintage Porche 911 (I really hope I'm getting this right, Steve!). It's a fantastic car, but not meant for carting around a bunch of adults. His wife and I smashed our bodies into the backseat and Andrew tucked himself into the front passenger side. It took us a while to get sorted out, and Steve pulled away from the curb just as Andrew started to panic: "Pull over! Pull over!"

Steve pulled over and Andrew unfolded his body like an accordion just in time to get out and throw up his dinner: a double bacon cheeseburger topped off with a split wiener. Once we got dropped off at my place, Andrew stayed outside and kept throwing up. I guess he hadn't been sick in a long time because he was convinced that he was dying. At one point he begged me to phone an ambulance. Trying not to laugh, I coaxed him inside, got him some water and tucked him into bed.

I do realize that by my telling stories like this I am opening up the vault, which I'm totally okay with, just as long as nobody remembers in the morning.



Monday, November 3, 2014

Mileage Monday

My goal was to hit at least 60 miles this week with the incorporation of a 15-20 miler on the weekend, but we ran out of time and all I could swing was a medium long run each on Saturday and Sunday. I did manage to hit 70 total miles for the week, though, which pleases me to no end.

Monday- 7 miles on the therapymill while Callum napped.

Tuesday- 8 miles on the therapymill during Callum's nap and then 5 more miles at night (I knew I would need a double run day if I wanted to hit the high miles).

Wednesday- 8 more miles on the MF treadmill. I really need to get outside soon.

Thursday- Andrew came home to work so while Callum slept, I took off for 10 miles in the rain and wind. It could have been raining sasquatch dicks and it would have been better than the treadmill.

Friday- 7 miles on the treadmill AGAIN, but I'm anticipating some outside mileage this weekend.

Saturday- I headed outside for 12 miles when Andrew got home from work. I had to get my run in while Callum's belly was full and then when I got home Andrew went for his shorter run. We managed to squeeze them both in before heading to his parents' house for drinks and appies.

Sunday- Callum woke up at whatthefuck o'clock so I went out for 13 miles once I got him down for a nap...at 7:30am. Unreal.

Andrew and I booked a room in Seattle for the night before the marathon but I'm realizing with each passing day that Callum is not going to take a bottle. He's only 8 months old so he still needs breast milk or formula, yet whenever I give him formula he literally gags himself silly. Not really sure what to do about that. We have 27 days to figure it out. He's really lucky he's so cute.



Friday, October 31, 2014

BFF: Gonch

See, I have this post all set up for auto publishing for Blended Family Friday but it's boring as hell. All of my posts lately have been so serious and sentimental, and it's time that I just really tell it how it is.

You know what it's like over here? Here's a perfect example of a typical blended family. I got a text from Jason (ex-husband, father of Jake, Freddy and Katie) telling me that he found a pair of women's underwear stuck in Jake's shorts that he packed in his bag. And because I had Callum balancing on one hip and a pot of pasta boiling on the stove in the kitchen, I couldn't totally freak out and instead could only stare at the texts on my phone while my blood pressure rose to a deafening roar. It's those moments where I visualize the years of my life dropping off the edge of a cliff: there goes year 73, now 72, 71 just took a nosedive, and so on and so forth.

Because Jason knows all of this, he gleefully sends me a picture of the underwear and they look hauntingly familiar. They're mine. It's a Victoria's Secret aqua-blue lacy thong and I want to die right there at age 36 because a) my underwear is in the pocket of my 14 year-old son's shorts and b) my ex-husband just took a picture of it and it's at his house. Jason's grossed out, Jake is mortified, and I want to die. And then of course Andrew is like, why is Jason texting pictures of your blue lacy underwear? And why are they in Jake's shorts? And the ripe old age of 71 just isn't coming soon enough.

But then? But then. I exhale with relief because they're my underwear and not some random woman's blue lacy thong in my 14 year-old son's shorts. It's a simple laundry mix-up, and really the only thing that I need to worry about is that the pot of spaghetti on the stove not boil over.

And everything else in the whole wide world.




Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Woozy Wednesday

Like I was saying last week on Tuesday, when I published my first edition of "Woozy Wednesday" (ironically, I had been knee deep into the red wine and had mixed up the days), I didn't grow up with alcohol. When I was just over nineteen, I recall going out for drinks with the punks who I worked with at a sports store after work one night and I fidgeted nervously while the waitress went around our table taking drink orders. So far the only experiences I had with alcohol were taking haphazard swigs out of vodka bottles and then throwing it all up in the bushes. The girls I worked with ordered some sort of complicated fruity drinks, but the guys all ordered beer. And because I lived for going against the norm, I also ordered a beer. I had no idea what kind to get, so I copied the dude next to me and ordered a Heineken. I gulped down the first bit and thought it tasted fine until one other guy screwed up his face at it and said he'd never order those; they're too "skunky." And I swear the next sip tasted exactly like skunk, and I haven't been able to drink it since.

In the summer of 2010 I drove down to Tacoma to visit my friend Renata and together we took off for Portland, Oregon. I wanted to get my dreads tuned up at a funky little shop and after that we stopped in at one of the local breweries for lunch. I had no clue what to drink so I just ordered an IPA, and Renata ordered an oatmeal stout. When I screwed up my face at my first sip of bitter citrus, Renata kindly offered a sip of hers. It. Was. It. The waitress switched up my drinks and we sipped our beers and dug into our burgers in total bliss.

It's nice to finally like something because I really like it, not because the guy next to me likes it or because I'm not allowed to like it. It feels right and good like my favourite bright green sweater with the worn-out elbows. I don't chug it to get buzzed; I drink it to share with those around me. It's like the difference between selfishly eating all the M&Ms out of the bag of trail mix while standing in the kitchen, and sitting around the table with my friends and family to break bread and savor a meal.

Have I shoveled M&Ms down my throat while standing alone in a dark pantry, carelessly dropping bits of peanuts and cashews all over the floor? Youbetcha. Just like I've come back from a run and thrown back a couple of light beers for the sole purpose of numbing the stress in my chest. Are both of those going to kill me? No. But they make me feel pretty shitty.

So here's to my green sweater, to warm bread, to dark beer and the warm skin of the man I love, and the kids we raise together. And if that's not a total buzz, then I don't know what is.


Monday, October 27, 2014

Mileage Monday

I never know how many miles I'm going to get in during any average week. It all depends on how each day unfolds. I've been spending a lot of time on my treadmill in the garage which is fine with me, I guess. I call it my "therapymill." There's something about sweating so much that I could wring my shirt out that just kills all of the cortisol in my bloodstream. It's like an ounce of FML exits my body with each drop of sweat.

I think most long-distance runners have at least a touch of OCD. I have to run on the left side of whoever I'm running with. I have to top out at a number of weekly miles that end in zero (ie. 50 miles, 60, etc). And I typically need to run every day or I feel like something bad will happen to me; I don't "feel right" if I don't get a run in.

This is what the past week looked like:

Monday: 5 mile recovery run after racing on the weekend
Tuesday: 8 miles on the therapymill
Wednesday: 10 miles: I did 3 on the treadmill and then mapped out a 7 mile run for Andrew
Thursday: 7 miles on the therapymill while the chubby kid slept
Friday: 10 super slow miles. I took walk breaks, checked Facebook, texted people, made notes.
Saturday: 5 miles on the sweatmill. Our one year anniversary!
Sunday: Andrew did his long run of 14 miles (he's training for Seattle at the end of November) and when he got back, I took off with Lora for 10 miles. 

So, 55 total miles for the week. I'm not thrilled that my total didn't end in "0" but at least "5" is a divisor of 10. NERD.

I'm itching to race again but not as much as I'm looking forward to seeing Andrew run his second marathon. It's going to be a very different experience for him with Seattle being a big city with much cooler weather. I'm happy to pass the racing baton on to my sexier half.





Friday, October 24, 2014

BFF (Blended Family Friday)

When most people find out that we have a blended family of eight, the first question they ask us is if our kids all get along. At first we felt pressured to not only lie and say yes, (ha!) but then to somehow force everyone to be happy together. But then we were like, wait. What? Do blood siblings of regular typical families all get along? I know two brothers who fought each other to the near-death while they were growing up and now they're in their forties and closer than ever. Andrew will tell you that he drove his sister nearly mad, taunting and antagonizing her, but was their family life a flop? No. Not at all!

Fighting is normal and expected in every family, however, there needs to be a foundation of love and respect, and that takes time. It also takes trial and error, hurt feelings and sore shoulders, but at the end of the day, each sibling needs to have the other one's back, in some capacity or another.


The more people in the family means more issues and more work, sure. But more people in the family also means more opportunities for learning, and more rewards. There are growing pains, but we can either focus on the word "growing" or the word "pain." I recently read somewhere that divorce doesn't really end family life; it just reorganizes it.

Fridays will be the days that I focus on our blended family. I'll write about everything from our struggles to our favourite recipes that feed a bazillion people for cheap.

Enjoy the show!






Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Woozy Wednesdays

A lot of normal, well-adjusted-to-society bloggers have weekday themes such as "Wordless Wednesdays" where they post photographs of trees or their kid's Lego creations. Or they publish "What They Ate Wednesdays" where they list what they ate for each meal alongside photos of perfectly broiled whitefish and collard greens sauteed in tree bark juice. It's like a car wreck; I simply have to stare. But, I'm Suzy, and because I take shitty photos and have a crappier diet than the average 16 year-old male, I decided to come up with my own weekday themes.

Wednesdays, on The Runs, are now known as "Woozy Wednesdays." On Woozy Wednesdays I write about alcohol. Maybe it's a review of a new red wine we tasted, or it could be a memory we had from high school (remind me to tell you about the Sambuca story at Gary's house). Or it could be a recommendation of a good pub, or a certain beer that goes with a favourite meal. Anything and everything to do with alcohol will be written about on Wednesdays.

Excited? Me too.

I didn't grow up with alcohol and so I was never educated about it. At all. I didn't know how much to drink (or not drink) or why dark beer is dark or why white wine needs to be cold or that Vodka isn't supposed to be chugged straight from the bottle like a Corona. I learned about it all much later in life and, with a few bumps and bruises (and pregnancies), I've grown a healthy respect for the drink. Just like everything, it needs to be enjoyed in moderation. And when it isn't, then I will write about it, right here.

Anyone have any input for Thursdays? So far, all I have are "Thoughtful" and "Throbbing."


Saturday, October 18, 2014

Hold Strong

Anyone who knows me knows about my eating habits; they are not pretty. I was a vegetarian in high school; I stayed away from meat and stuck with ketchup chips and chocolate bars. Not much has changed, except with the necessary addition of chicken wings and cheeseburgers.

However, from time to time when circumstances would force me to change my habits, I would collapse at the mercy of my nutritionist, Brenda, and she would save me. When my dad got diagnosed with colo-rectal cancer, Brenda set me up with a colon cleanse. When heavy doses of antibiotics threw my body into yeast-overload, she armed me with everything I needed to get my body back into balance.

Brenda has the most amazing skin. I stand there in her office, my armpits sweating, feeling pathetic and hopeless and she puts me at ease with her soothing voice, her radiant smile and most importantly, her knowledge of the human body. One of the tests she uses on me is what I call the "hold strong" test. If she wants to see if I'm lacking in say, vitamin C, she will put a bottle of it in my hand while my arm is flexed and she tells me to "hold strong" while she pushes down on my forearm. The theory is if I am needing the vitamin C, I won't be able to hold strong; my arm will give easily to her pressure. And if my body is all stocked up then my arm will not give. It will hold strong.

During the toughest time of my life I would have that phrase put into my mind and heart several times a day. Like, Suzy? Take this. Yes. Now hold strong.

Okay, I'm getting all choked up.

I will take whatever life chooses to put in my hands. And I'll hold it, I'll take it, I'll let it move through me and for me and against me like a cancer and a cure and then I will grow from it. I will survive it.

And the next time I am handed something hard to hold, I will be able to hold on that much stronger. 


Thursday, October 16, 2014

Crackerjacks

When I was a little girl my mom and dad would take me to the Vancouver Canadiens baseball games and there, during particularly tense moments I'd hunch over, my tailbone digging into the plastic chair and I'd focus on my thumbnail, of all things. I'd lose myself inside of it, envisioning the pitcher whipping one right down the chute and then the batter whacking it out of the park. Weird, eh? Ya.

I have a strong will. I've always figured that if I wanted something bad enough that I would just get it. If I could only draw up every last drop of internal energy and squeeeeeeze it out as magic potion into whatever situation that needed it then I would be able to save it all, steering the wheel of the ship away from its demise. From time to time it would work as I envisioned it inside of my thumbnail; the good guys would hit a home run and win the game. But most of the time I have to face reality: I'm not God. And that sucks.

I'd like to say that if I was God, I'd run a perfectly painless world. But we all know that beauty comes out of ashes, flowers grow where dirt once was, and grace grows in the cracks. Right? A lot of the treasures in our lives exist because of the mistakes we first made. Our present situations, although at times uncomfortable, can be redeemed with Love. So maybe, just maybe, I could stop looking down at my own strong will and instead look up and just enjoy the game. Plus, I'm sure the people sitting closest to me would appreciate it if I stopped focusing on my thumbnail and passed the popcorn already.



Sunday, October 12, 2014

I Will

I will never be drunk enough for this, for these nights, the ones that shove me forward, my toes on the brink of the fall. There's nothing that can take the edge off the burning in my body, the muscles of my will to survive shaking in exhaustion, digging themselves into the earth. There's no respite, only sharp sobriety.

Anne Lamott is one of my most treasured writers and she taught me how to feel each moment, really drink it in and wait, wait long enough for the moment to reach my extremities. Our tendency is to fight it, to stuff it, to will it away. If I don't let myself feel the pain then maybe I can trick myself into thinking that it's not really painful.

The same theory applies to the pains of childbirth. The more we fight the contractions, the worse they feel and the slower our progression. As each wave hits, if we make our bodies rigid, clenching our teeth in rebellion and fear, we will literally be pushing against Nature in an attempt to win a losing battle. But what does it look like when we let go? Our bodies become vessels of that power, rocking through the waves, delivering love. We move around, roll our heads, sway our hips. Each wave, starting at the centre of Creation radiates freely through our bodies, unhindered by fear, untamed by control. It reaches outward, and is released. And just like that, as we let go, our love is birthed, and we can begin to heal.

I will hold my position on the edge, I will feel the burn of my will to keep going, to hold strong. I will ride each wave as it hits, I will resist the urge to fight it and instead let it move me, let it rock and roll me. Love prevails, and I will let go.


Sunday, September 14, 2014

Chicken Wings

A few ladies in my general circle happen to be in their dirty thirties--a decade, for some reason or another, filled with pheromones, vibrators and crotchless underwear.

Teenage girls act and dress as if they have sex after every meal but in reality, hopefully, they're all just talk for the sake of male approval. Bachelorette years are filled with bad decisions and sleepless nights. Married life, especially when there are wee ones in the picture, is punctuated by scheduled sex: "I'll feed the baby, you clean the vomit off the floor in Billy's room, and I'll meet you in bed, naked and in the starfish position, at 10:16."

But the kids grow up a bit. They tell us they hate us, and they redecorate with permanent marker but they fucking sleep through the night and that's enough to turn us mommies into sexy sexbeasts. Everything tastes delicious. Our too-tight jeans no longer make our butts feel fat, but exciting.

But anyway. Dirty thirties. And those of us who are in the midst of it or have lived through it can agree with me when I say that we not only need all the sex but we actually get panicky about it. I can imagine it's how a teenage boy might feel. When we pass by our partner in the kitchen and give their butt a swat it's like we haven't eaten in a week and we just stumbled upon a T-bone steak. And what do we do? We panic. And because we are human and life is life, The Sex doesn't always happen. Which makes us girls in our dirty thirties get all pathetic and needy and extremely annoying and frustrating to be around. Our underwear cuts into our skin, the channel is stupid, and the curtains are ugly.

When we sit around and talk about our budding problematic sexuality we have, on occasion, come to the conclusion that the only way around the panic is to be the master of our domain earlier on in the day before the date night because then anything that happens thereafter is a bonus. This way there's no pressure, no ugly curtains, no annoying neediness.

Tommy Boy convinced the waitress to reopen the kitchen so that he could order some chicken wings. He got her to do it because he was relaxed about it as he had a pizza in the trunk of his car if she decided to say no. Tommy want wingy. Same thing.

But then. I mean, it's fine and all, I'm certainly not judging. But I feel a little hesitant about it because whenever I'm stuck at a fork in the road I like to ask myself why. Why do we need to be the masters of our domain before date night? Is it really to take the edge off? Will we die if we wait? What are we afraid of? And if we do decide to go ahead and do it, are we doing it from a heart and mind of love, or of fear? Tommy Boy could have certainly done without the extra meal.

The opposite of love is not hate; it's fear.

Waiting for hunger pains makes food taste just so much better. It's healthier, too. So why wouldn't that concept ring true across the board? It does. It's the great paradox. In a world where all our needs and desires are at our fingertips with the push of a button (did you see what I did there?), our hearts call us to wait. Have patience. Utilize self control. And when it does happen, it's so worth it. And if it doesn't? There's always chicken wings.




Tuesday, September 2, 2014

Aid Stations

Andrew is running his first marathon this weekend. He's panicking about it, navigating around the land of "what if?" to the point where he knows all the landmarks and on a dime, could give a tour of its every fear and apprehension.

I assured him that any of his worries not only can materialize, but probably will and that a lot of the pain and discomfort of running a marathon cannot be avoided but they can be managed. And that managing the obstacles that pop up in his path is the key to crossing the finish line.

He's going to get tired, he's going to hurt. He may even throw up and get diarrhea. But that's what gels, ibuprofen, Imodium and port-a-potties are for.

It's like life. Some of us struggle with eating too much. Others hate being around people. Some can't sleep, some are scared of commitment, and some have enough dandruff to totally kill their shot at a social life. That's just the way it is, because we are human and we are alive.

Nobody is guaranteed a smooth sail through the finish line. The more people I meet, the more I realize that everyone has a story. And in each story is a struggle. An obstacle. A bout of diarrhea, some pain, some nausea, some exhaustion. These are the things we are called to manage, if we intend to finish this race. They're unavoidable, and so we face them head-on, right? With our names on our bibs, with our loves at our sides, and with drinks at the finish.


Saturday, August 30, 2014

Break Out

When I was a teenager, I dealt with zits. But they weren't the nice polite little red dots, easily squeezed and then dried up with special cream promoted by cute models on TV. No. I had something called cystic acne, otherwise known as "under-the-skin zits."

Under-the-skin zits are these hot and infected mounds of ouch that grow beneath the surface of the skin. They cannot be squeezed and if a squeeze is attempted, all that comes out is this clear liquid leaving behind a lump 100 times the original size. I once had one between my eyebrows and ended up walking out of the bathroom looking like one of the characters from Star Trek.

My mom was one of those parents that let me stay home from school when The Zits were really really bad. I recall one day in grade eleven, I had six under-the-skin zits on my face at once. My friends were heading up to Seymour to go snowboarding and I stayed at home reapplying antibacterial cream to my war wounds.

Eventually my mom got sick of me whining about my appearance and one day when I was begging her to stay at home, she told me something I'll never forget. A bit cross with me, she said, "Suzy, you're thinking much too highly of yourself to think that everyone is looking at you and your zits." She was annoyed. She was harsh. But she was right.

I often remember her words when I get my feet stuck in my own ego. We can't really engage in life when we're worried about what everyone else will think of us. The land of worry has high electric fences around the perimeter.

But I say we break out of our prison of worry to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before. Even if we do look like a Vulcan.



Tuesday, August 12, 2014

SSBB

I took the kids to the pool last night and while we were piling our sweaty bodies out of the van, Katie and I said something at the exact same time, so she shouts out in a panic, "JINX ROOF!" and I'm all, "what?" and she's like, "if we say something at the same time and someone says 'jinx' first, I can reply with 'jinx roof' and then I win, and they can't speak until I say their name."

That is just way too much control for an nine year-old to possess. But it reminded me of when I was her age and the games we used to play. Not 'doctor' you sickos. We played Super Sonic Bounce Back.

When we were tucked into our tiny metal desks, being fed some bullshit about long division, one of us predictably got bored and stirred up some chaos. Notes were passed, a couple kids farted, and we could always count on some bully to call someone a name of some sort: "You're such a LOOOOO-ZERRRRR, Bobby!" or "How did you ever fit that McFat ass in that desk, Betty!"

Apparently I'm so old that my classmates names were Bobby and Betty. Awesome.

If Bobby and Betty were on their game, they would have anticipated the verbal assault and had written in permanent ink on their palms: "SSBB" so that when someone calls them an idiot, they could simply throw their hand in their opponent's face and point to the letters, proclaiming their own innocence: "Super Sonic Bounce Back! HA HA HA! Looks like your insult bounces off me and goes back to YOU! YOU'RE the idiot NOW!"

It's brilliant.

And it's totally how the real world works, but without the dirty hair and sticky fingers. Well, most of us anyway.

We treat people like shit and it always comes back around. It just does. Call it Karma, call it SSBB, call it John 3:16 but whatever you want to call it, it's always the same: the way we treat others will leave a mark on our own hearts whether we want it to or not. Our own poor choices will hurt others, for sure. But they will disable us. They don't just bounce back; they Super Sonic Bounce Back.

And there's not a single long division lesson on this earth that is more painful than that. 





Thursday, July 24, 2014

Text Eulogy

I was getting so sick of misunderstood texts so I phoned my cell phone company and asked them to turn off my free endless texting feature. The guy who took my call was aghast, wanting to know why I didn't want to text anymore. In all the years he's worked there, nobody had ever made this request, not once. Not one single person.

But I bet that I won't be the last.

This is a ballsy assumption but I know that everyone reading this post right now can think of a time where a text they sent or received was misunderstood and it somehow adversely affected a relationship to the point of complete destruction, or at best, made for a really shitty day. Right? I bet all my underwire bras that this is true.

Texting is convenient, sure. But it should be treated like fast food; it's a quick way to fulfill a need but it should never replace the meat and potatoes of face to face human interaction. Emoticon has the word "con" in it for a reason. Texting doesn't pick up our eye movements, our blushing cheeks and furrowed brows. Even a smiley face can be taken as sarcasm-soaked anger.

Not even that but we all know how easy it is to send off a sentence we'd never even dream of uttering out loud. Removing ourselves by one step with a handheld device can make us brave enough to win us Douchebag of the Year awards. It's the easiest way to duck and run while saving face, because our face wasn't even in the frame in the first place.

Don't think I'm getting all Ruthy Righteous here. I suck, I totally suck. And if I didn't tell you the truth that I'm practically twitching in text withdrawal then I would suck even more. Phone calls with 800 kids and a crying baby is about as much fun as scraping dried bits of pasta off casserole dishes. But for me today, it's the healthier option. Maybe one day when I get more sleep and less mastitis I will be able to integrate texting into my life in a balanced way but for now, I'm not.

Lora, I already know you love Nathen and you probably just ran 8 miles in an insanely fast time and now you're drinking wine and painting. And Christy, OMFW. Right? And Alison, *insert the girl doing the karate move that we use as a hug*. Jason, just look at the schedule app. Jake, if you're texting me then you're in huge trouble because you're not supposed to have your phone. Tracey, I'm really glad my kids didn't pick up my phone and see that picture. Lori, you're my hero as always. Jane, I love that song too! And Andrew... well, I still love you more.

:)




Saturday, July 19, 2014

Restraining Order

I'm sitting here watching an episode of Jail and there was this scene where the guy gets out of control and starts banging his head against the glass. So the officers had to go into his cell and pretty much seatbelt him into this restraining chair where he can't move. They did this to protect the man from himself.

The officer explained how in most cases the individual, once restrained in the chair, becomes more calm, less of a threat to himself because he (or she, of course) is forced to think about why they got to that point. If they're left to wander around their cell then they'll do whatever they can do to distract themselves from reality. Their emotions run wild and reality disappears. In the chair, however, their emotions are held down, and reality starts to pop through the clouds.

I get it. I have my own kind of jail cell--we all do. Sometimes we need to force ourselves to be still so that we can face reality, no matter how painful it may be, and then deal with it.

The officers unbuckled the man from his restraining chair because they could see his physical demeanor settle. His eyes went soft, his shoulders dropped. He faced reality, and he was sober from it. Once he was free, he stretched out on the bench, his arms behind his head, and he stared at the ceiling imagining the freedom beyond the florescent lights.

That's the only way we will find freedom, if we can only be still enough to catch a glimpse of it first.





Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Fack Fear

When my almost 14 year-old son Jake was a chubby-cheeked first grader, he came home from (Christian private) school one day with watery eyes and a trembling lower lip. Apparently, Jake told me, his friend Ryan introduced him to the "F" word.

Hoping that my sweet little innocent boy might be spared a few more years from the vulgar language that I save for after bedtime and speeding tickets, I crossed my fingers and prayed a silent prayer that the "F" stood for "Fart." I asked Jake what exactly the "F" word was and he whispered shamefully, "It stands for 'fack'."

"Oh!" I exhaled with relief. "And what does 'fack' mean?"

Jake was terrified, but managed to squeak out, "It means when the man puts his penis in the lady's bum."

Growing up in the church, my days baptized with skin-coloured pantyhose and potluck dinners, I remember going to youth group functions where the speaker would preach about our sexuality. Our cheeks would burn with guilt as we'd hope against hope that he'd pull a "Jesus and the fishes"* and miraculously spare us from the hellfire that will most certainly consume us if we ever lost our virginity.

The most popular question at these things was always, "where is the line?" as in, "what can we get away with without technically sinning?" The guys would wonder what they could do with their penis without losing their virginity. Was masturbating okay? Maybe put it in a pie? And the girls with acceptance issues would hope that they could, I don't know, do super slutty things without letting the vajayjay out.

It's a brutal way to live, really, because it's fear-based living. We were all focused on what not to do, not because we were mature and cared about our bodies, mind and spirits but because we were scared of sinning. I've always said that the opposite of love isn't hate--it's fear. And since God is (supposed to be) Love, why is fear so prevalent in the church?

I wish the preachers had sent the whole lot of us to the water slides for the day and instead collected our parents into a room and preached at them. God knows they could have used a break from us and a free casserole dinner.  Love starts at home. At the dinner table. While we fight, while we play catch, while we pick lice out of our kids' heads. It's in the mind-bending exhaustion of staying up all night with a puker, or taking our teen to the doctor for anti-bacterial cream for a zit that got out of control.

If love drives out fear in our homes, then our kids won't need to find love somewhere else. They won't need to fack.

*Jesus and the fishes refers to the Bible story where Jesus had to feed a gazillion starving people with like, hardly any fish, but somehow, everyone had something to eat.









Monday, July 14, 2014

Magic Trick

On Victoria Day in May, our family of eight, along with Andrew's parents and friends went to the May Day parade in Fort Langley, an annual tradition for the Slane family. As usual, nothing went smoothly for us. Jeebuz turned up the rain dial to a '10' so that we all had to stand out in the torrential downpour for a solid two hours, with a baby. Soaked with cold rain and bad attitudes, we hung around and counted down the seconds until we could jump back into the heated van and fuck off out of there.

Although, Andrew said something that really resonated with me. He reminded me that I wouldn't feel this frustration a couple of days from then. Sticking it out in the chaos and rain and frustratingly bad attitudes would be difficult, yes, but it's short-lived and totally worth it in the big picture.

I know this phenomenon to be true in the running world. Running can sometimes hurt, a lot. But there's a mental muscle that builds endurance and it grows stronger because of the pain of it all. And proving this "big picture" mentality true time and time again helps me to translate it over into my other categories of life as well: family, teenagers, money issues, etc. That some days just absolutely suck. We get served legal papers, or someone gets lice. And in that moment it takes everything in us not to fake an injury and take a cab ride home but we learn that sticking it out, riding the wave, makes us stronger people, better parents, closer friends.

The only time that this phenomenon doesn't work is in Walmart lineups with no Coronas at home. Otherwise, it's golden.



Wednesday, July 2, 2014

Penises Are Like People

Okay, just a sec. I need to take a swig of wine before I start writing this one. Nnggkaahh. There. So a few years ago during my self work phase (letting go of control, insecurities, showing myself grace, gaining confidence in who I am, blah blah blah) I gave myself the assignment of walking around a nude beach. But actually naked, with no bathing suit on. I had assumed that I was going to be the only one there with National Geographicesque boobies but upon arrival I quickly realized that I was not the only one. Indeed, there were a whole tribe of us.

My friends and I fluffed out our blankets, and right after I whipped my bathing suit off, I laid down, buried my face in my towel and squeezed my bum cheeks together. It took some time and a couple of Coronas but I was finally ready to self-regulate and saunter down to the water. The walk to the edge felt like a trip to the electric chair but sinking into the ocean with the velvety water against my skin made it all worth it. I was free.

Shoot, okay, I got side-tracked. This post wasn't supposed to be about that, it was supposed to be about this. So my friends and I opened up a discussion about bodies and how different we all are, thank goodness. Because wouldn't it just be so boring if we all looked like supermodels? Mmmhmm. Right. But anyway, we got to talking about penises.

Nnggkaahh. More wine.

And they informed me that there are typically two kinds of penises: The Growers, and The Show-ers.

Apparently Growers are the ones that start out regular-sized when they're all flaccid but then when erect, they show up to the game in full gear, ready to go. The Show-ers are the ones that when flaccid are already swinging the bat and when erect, the bat just gets hard. Same size, just hard.

Makes sense.

Some people are all show. There's a local guy here that drives a big ol' jacked up truck with giant tires with a custom license plate that says "HUGE." Penis size? I'm sure it's not huge. There are churchy people that puff their chests out and judge The Sinners and tell them (us? Nnggkaahh...) to go to church, to read the Bible, to fast and pray. Meanwhile they're, what, who knows? Probably stealing lipstick from Safeway and taking the first licks off their kids' ice cream cones. The Show-ers look all righteous and shiny and fantastical. But when the pressure builds, well, they just get harder to deal with.

Some people actually grow. They start out humble and unassuming, living their lives in the dark messy corners where life matters most. Jesus was like that. He was born in a barn, grew up to be a carpenter by trade, wore sandals and walked giant distances to reach the town rejects so he could love them quietly, without pretense. There are all sorts of growers around us. They're often tattooed, their eyes shadowed with a mark of some sort. But when they laugh, it's from their guts. When they love, it's from their hearts. When the pressure builds, they show up to play ball. And when they're up to bat, they always hit a home run.

Nnggkaahh...

And there of course are some penises that are huge and just get huger. And some that are shrinky-dink and don't grow much at all, either. Home runs are hit all over the world with all different sizes of penises and the size, ability, etc etc DOES NOT MATTER. Which is what this post is about, that love is what matters. That's my point. Did I blow it?

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Baggage Claim

I recently read a blog about how people exposed their innermost issues by writing them with pen on their bodies. One girl wrote "daddy issues" across her knuckles. Another woman wrote "molested age 5" and "mother age 16" and "prisoner age 27" on various parts of her body. One guy wrote "fat" on his hand. Another man wrote "accept me" across his forehead.

First of all, my heart goes out to overweight people because they don't get any sort of buffer between when people first meet them and when they really get to know them and the issues they carry. The man who wrote "fat" across his hand? Well, we already knew that. Right? Because he's fat right there in front of us. But the girl who was raped, or the one who cuts her torso, or the man who had testicular cancer or whose dad beat him or whose mom abandoned him, we don't see those issues right away the way we see fat on a person.

Let me take a side road here for a second. When the kids were little, our family went to Mexico and Katie did this thing in the airport where she'd ride on either my or Jason's suitcase because she was too little to keep up with the rush of it all. Since our divorce, I have told the kids that we all have our own suitcases of issues where we carry our pain, our sadness, our anger, our stress. That Andrew, dad and I all carry our own suitcases and that never, under any circumstance are any of our children allowed to carry our suitcases. Ever. But that they, as our children, have their own suitcases and that we are to help them carry theirs. It's a metaphor that works for us, and I've used it many times to help illustrate my point. It's a tendency for kids to see a hurting parent and want to help them out or protect them from their pain, but it's NOT OKAY. All I have to say to them is "this is not your suitcase."

So back to the fat person. Their suitcase happens to be wide open, spilling out all over the place. The girl who was raped or the guy with the mama drama? They can keep their suitcase all secretive and looking tidy. Would that be frustrating for the fat guy? I bet. But I also bet that they feel relieved, knowing that they don't have to keep anything hidden, wondering when someone is going to find out their big insecurity because it's right there in the open.

Big suitcases or small, exposed or not, we all have them. And I choose to surround myself with people who accept that fact because if we don't, we'll get stuck where we are and never get the opportunity to travel to new places.