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.

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.

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.

Push

A mother is bent sideways, balancing life on one hip, edges rounded by the delicious fruit of love. A mother carries the weight of her heart: her children. And when love gets too heavy, she lowers her heart deep down into the cells of each emotional and physical and spiritual muscle ever flexed within her and she draws upon a strength conceived in the exact second that she became Mother. And from that strength, with the grunts and groans of childbirth, pained and exhausted, she heaves life back into her children. Their frail limbs once quivering with the weight of their worlds, silently, from behind like a breeze, her love lifts them up and guides them forward.

I became a mother at the age of twenty-two. The shift from a life focused on Suzy toward a life focused on my child served to carve out parts of me that I didn't know existed. An operation of sorts carried on without anesthetic or any hopes of morphine, recovery, or regained mobility. Running marathons helped me to see the rigors of motherhood in the big picture--that the hard work pays off, the painful moments eventually pass, and a little throw-up never hurt anyone. But it's such a thankless job, isn't it? Our efforts are a well-kept secret from the rest of humanity like a private club in which the initiation would buckle the strongest of knees.

But what doesn't kill us only makes us stronger.

We don't do it for recognition, no. And we certainly don't do it for the fame and fortune. We do it for love. When our children, teetering on spindly legs, venture out into the big world and find their strength waning, they'll be able to look back home and feel the warm wind of our love holding them up and pushing them forward.

Cooped Up

I've had a writer's block lately because honestly, I feel a bit post-partumy and I'm afraid of publishing my thoughts and feelings in case they are incriminating. But then, when I was hanging out at Christy's, eating her Kraft Dinner and leaking breast milk on her couch, she reminded me of how she loves to read my writing because it's real. Some people buy new furniture and keep the plastic wrap on their lampshades and I say fuck that! Rip it off and shine those lights all over the damn house because whatever we've poured our hearts and minds and souls into are contained within those four walls and that stuff needs to be lit up.

But then. But then I was having coffee and muffins with my aunt and uncle and they helped me realize that maybe I don't need to write about everything that is happening right now, that maybe I can write about it later. Like, later later. When I'm not IN it. Because have you ever bought one of those rotisserie chickens that they make in the store? It always smells like fart. Right? It stinks up the cashier area, it reeks up the minivan, and turns the fridge into a burp. But later on, once you cut up the chicken and incorporate it into a dish of some sort, it becomes quite un-fart-like, if you aren't a complete donkey in the kitchen.

My days can be unglamorous at best. Today? Today smelled like fart. Do I need to write about it? Probably not. But will I be able to help and encourage someone else one day when I can look back and remember what I went through? Hopefully, yes. Because that's what this life is all about: eating Kraft Dinner and leaking breast milk and drinking coffee with the people we love, because love has a way of turning stinky chicken into a satisfying meal.

Bear in Area

As seen on yesterday's run...

Having a baby wreaks havoc on a woman's emotional temperature. It's a collision of sorts where the uterus freezes over and clamps down to its original state while the furnace of the breasts expand to epic proportions. By merely walking into a room I can both kill off unwanted organisms with my icy glare and obliterate their remains in my fiery wake.

I think when women have babies, there's some sort of hormone released in our bodies that makes us capable of homicide, to you know, protect our young. Things like germs on shopping cart handles keep us awake at night. Our babies cry for 5 minutes straight and all of a sudden we give ourselves a diet overhaul and throw out anything dairy, wheat, caffeinated, and edible for the sake of our newborn baby's digestion. And if that doesn't work, we spend $180, 000 at the natural food store on ancient remedies that promise calm babies and a solid night's sleep. And when said remedies don't work, we bring back the dairy, wheat and caffeine and raise them a bottle of wine.

Luckily, the postpartum crazies pass just as fast as our newborn baby's gassy poop rockets--one minute we're crying in pain and the next minute we're rolling around naked, grinning from ear to ear. Life is messy, but it's rewarding. There are rough patches, but they pass as quickly as they come. Babies grow. Mommies lose their bear fur and turn back into humans. And hopefully, the people we had obliterated in our emotional wake come back to forgive us.

Baby Steps

On March 3rd, we had our baby, our little nursing champion: Callum Andrew Slane. At just over three weeks early he managed to hang onto a solid 7lb and 12oz of pure adorableness. Thankfully, he knows that his neurotic mama needed to get out for a run at the earliest possible convenience and so he decided to make his grand entrance into the world before his due date (he's getting an extra inheritance for this decision).

I went out for a run two days ago and when I got back home, right before I collapsed into a puddle on the front steps, I pumped my fist in the air and shouted Chevy Chase's line in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation: "HALLELUIAH!.....HOLY SHIT!"

Then I ran again yesterday. And then I'm meeting Lora for a run today and celebratory beers in the trail parking lot.

I am wife and mother, daughter and sister, friend and lover. And I am runner. Because I'm out of time, I wanted to share with you guys what my fellow Canadian runner brother Steve wrote today, because it hit home with me so much and I know that so many runners out there will also recognize their own hearts in his voice. Until next time, here's Steve:

Runnersworld dot com’s Daily Kick In the Butt:

“We run to undo the damage we’ve done to body and spirit. We run to find some part of ourselves yet undiscovered.” ~ John “The Penguin” Bingham~

A few years ago, I was dying. Not in the conventional sense of dying from some disease…just dying from the inside out. There was still life in the body but that isn’t the same thing as really living, is it? Listless, confused, and depressed…and getting fat. Shit had to change. I have talked about it before but I never wanted to lose my edge. Of course, somehow over the years, I got softer. The edge turned into rounded edges.

The edge has changed. It no longer involves reckless behavior and intoxicant fueled concepts. Now it consists of finding that undiscovered part of myself. In an age where there seems to be very few frontiers, perhaps the last frontier is within. Now the edge is just a hunger for breaking through barriers…testing my will and becoming stronger inside and out. Running gives me the ability to tap into what lies beneath.

The edge is undoing the damage to body and spirit…and mind. Funny how changing your physicality can change you spiritually and intellectually as well. Never before have I felt so alive (at least not in a really long time.) As I grow as a runner, I have also grown as a human…more compassionate, empathetic, and understanding. Understanding of my own strengths and limitations and understanding of others’. No longer stuck in the rut that seems to claim so many lost souls, I have learned to live.

A simple choice but one that a lot of people don’t seem to figure out.

“Get busy living or get busy dying.” ~ Andy Dufresne (Tim Robbins in Shawshank Redemption)