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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.