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.

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.

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.

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!

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."

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. 

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.

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.