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.