Last Friday as I was gathering up Zoe’s lunch and jacket and urging her to get her shoes on and trying to locate her water bottle that’s always missing, I stopped in the middle of the living room and groaned. Dammit.
What’s wrong? Christian asked. And I explained that since Sunday was Zoe’s birthday, today would be the logical day for her to take cupcakes to school to celebrate, and in my usual last minute haste to plan her party for Saturday, I had completely failed to plan for this. (If you know me well, you should not be surprised. If I am anything, it is NOT on the ball.)
So go to HEB and get some cupcakes, he said. And then I was all, Yeah I COULD, but that’s so boring, and I like to make them, and and and… Because I really do. I don’t keep the neatest house and I don’t take them on the grandest of adventures, but dammit, I will always make their birthday treats in whatever theme they want.
And then he was all, Dude. Have you seen your schedule lately? You need to take something off your plate. Pick up some damn cupcakes on the way to school and be done with it.
So we did, and Zoe carefully surveyed the choices and settled on a container of red, blue, and green frosted cupcakes because I don’t think the boys will want those pink and purple ones. And that was that. While I would have loved to have made pretty cupcakes for her class with my killer buttercream frosting, it was kind of a relief to just spend $6 and grab a 12-pack that someone else slaved over.
I have pretty much decided to give up on my half marathon training. I’m not giving up on running, but like those cupcakes, I had to take something off my plate. A lot of things are different this time around from the last time I trained for a half. My kids’ schedules are different (although more accommodating than last time). I’m completely out of shape from being our of commission for almost a year. We’re working on Listen to Your Mother.
But the biggest change is my attitude.
After my last grumpy running post, everyone came out in droves to lift me up and admit that at some point in just about every single run, there’s a point where you want to say “Eff this.” But my attitude towards my training in general has been negative and riddled with apathy and anger. It’s not self-doubt, because I’ve done this before, so I know my body can do it with the proper training.
It’s that I just don’t care.
My knee started hurting a couple of weeks ago, and after a run on Friday that should have been 7 miles, but ended up just shy of 6 (with tears!), it hasn’t really stopped hurting. My longer runs have all put me in a really bad place mentally. Like, not just that hard and challenging struggles that come with training. Pure hatred. I don’t ever feel properly prepared. I can’t hit my stride, ever. While I’m grateful that my back is well enough that I can run, I’m not enjoying this in the least.
When I was out on that 7 mile run that ended up just shy of 6 (don’t forget the tears!), I threw an internal hissy fit. I vowed to not only give up on the half marathon training, but to also quit the ambassador program and throw myself a big, fat pity party, preferably with donuts, because I am a failure. Then about a quarter mile later, I told myself I was probably being a wee bit overdramatic, and realized I could just step down a notch and run the 10k and not have to turn in my ambassador badge just yet. And then I felt I could breathe again.
I have a hard time quitting things. I wouldn’t say that I normally overextend myself, but when I commit to something, giving up is rarely an option, and I beat myself up over it if I do.
But this time I felt such relief.
Seems that just like the cupcakes, I just need to take something off my plate. Running should be an activity that helps relieve stress, but right now, sticking to a training schedule is just causing more of it. I feel like it’s a waste of time and energy to continue to push something that I am truly hating. I want to be at a point where I get grumpy if I DON’T run, but it’s not coming. So I’ll run the Zooma 10k, and I’ll probably run the Cap10k right after that. If I continue to run with some consistency over the next few weeks, I will be fine for that distance, and I can just aim to improve my time. I have my eye on the 3M half marathon next January.
I’ll run for fitness and for fun, to blow off some steam and to challenge myself when I’m ready. But right now I’m perfectly fine saying I quit. Kind of.
It really takes a special person to injure themselves doing practically nothing at all. And if there’s one way I always classify myself, it’s special. Well, that and forgetful. As in total flake. Just this morning I remembered that Rachel was going to be receiving an award in the morning assembly for modeling good behavior. The assembly was last Friday. And I can’t even use one of my nonsensical injuries as an excuse. I just forgot, mere hours after finding out about it.
Say what you want about your achy marathon legs or the scrapes and bruises you got from that extreme obstacle course. I have real, honest-to-God injuries that I acquired by just BEING. First off, I have a camel splinter. Most people worry about the spitting or the biting and don’t even realize that the real dangers of camels lies in the petting, as in their fur is filled to the brim with tiny dagger-like needles, just ripe for being embedded into delicate fingers like mine. Nothing like searing pain ripping through your arm every 2 minutes to alert you that you tend to grip everything in the world with the exact same point of your middle finger where the camel splinter lieth.
At this point I see no way of getting it out other than performing minor surgery on myself, so I figure I’ll just play the game of “let’s see if it gets infected” before getting too crazy with the straight pin sterilized with a lighter. Do I even have a lighter?
Then last night I attempted to rescue Tiger from eating a balled-up Hershey Kiss wrapper, and to thank me, he clawed the shit out of my right hand (the camel splinter-free hand). Like, he hooked my finger with his claw and shook it and I wanted to die. If you’re going to ask me why there were empty Hershey Kiss wrappers next to me on the couch, you may as well ask me why I even attempted to save this wretched cat from eating it in the first place, because the answer to both of those questions is I DON’T KNOW. What I do know is that I have discovered my pain threshold, and it is “cat claw puncture in the pinkie finger. Also ring finger.”
And THEN today I practically paralyzed myself putting my hair into a ponytail, which makes perfect sense, given the increasingly diminished use of my hands. Some people would probably say “Maybe you shouldn’t be such a mom and wear your hair in a ponytail all the time,” and then I would say, “Maybe you should come a little closer, because I haven’t showered in 3 days and I think you need to smell this.”
So I did my usual early morning supermodel-esque tossing back of the hair, while simultaneously lifting up my arms to gather it up into a messy bun (before messy buns came with a 7-step process and a pinnable image), and there was a popping? Or maybe a snapping? There was definitely a shooting pain, and then I couldn’t move my head. I spent the rest of the morning turning my entire body every time I need to face something or someone, like a robot, only I think most robots can even turn their robot necks.
In conclusion! Camels are terrible selfie takers with dangerous fur, cats are assholes, both of my hands are likely teeming with infection. The only thing to do now is look straight ahead to the future. Because I physically can’t look elsewhere.
Saturday night I went to bed all grumpy because I knew that even though Sunday was my sleep in day, I would eventually have to get up and run 6 miles. And I was not excited about running 6 miles.
I feel really apathetic this time around. The good thing about training for a second half marathon is that my body has done this before, and I know it can do it again. I know that it will be hard, but I can do it. I know that race day will fill me with adrenaline, and I’ll finish wanting to do it again. Like, not the next day or anything. But again.
I also know I’ll get burned out as race day nears. I know that I’ll have good runs. I know I’ll have bad runs. I know I might very well get THE runs. So instead of telling myself that I’ve done it once and I can do it again, I’m saying, “I’ve done this once. So why the hell am I doing it again?”
Was I a one and done runner?
So I asked Christian, “Was I this apathetic last time I trained?”
And he said, “Yes. Yes you were.”
I’m not sure what the difference is this time around. Well, one of the differences is that I am out of shape and a few pounds heavier. And I’m not in the shape I was 2 years ago. I started training for 2013’s Zooma right off of my training for the Tough Mudder event I completed in October 2012.
My schedule is different this time. Where I thought I would have a lot more time to run and “do things” once I had all 3 kids in school at least a few days a week, that is just not the case. But I may have to consider making time for a run if I want to save my early morning sanity.
Today my back was hurting a little, so I rolled it out, ate a banana, drank my coffee, and headed out for my 6 miler. If runs had theme songs (and most of mine do), this one be a mashup of “Against the Wind” and “Running on Empty.” It was a glorious 65 degree day here in Austin, but I just didn’t have it. At 3.5, after a couple of walking bouts, I texted Christian something along the lines of “Motherfucker. I can’t do this.” Okay, that was exactly what I texted him. About a mile later, it was “Fuck this shit.”
Bad runs make me swearsy.
I could barely pass up the elderly lady who was jaunty-walking down the street ahead of me. When I turned around and we passed each other again, she couldn’t even look me in the eye, she was so embarrassed for me.
I’m not used to crying on runs until I at least get to the 10 or 11 milers, but damn if I wasn’t close this time. I wanted to just stop and walk the rest of the way home. But I was kinda far away from home, and that would take a really long time. And I am impatient.
And I thought of my friend Lisa, who is running the Austin Marathon next weekend. I know her training has been hard. She’s had some good runs. She’s had some bad runs. She’s been emotional and weepy on some (IT HAPPENS). But I’m just so damn proud of her. I can honestly say I will never ever EVER want to run a marathon. But she’s going to DO it. Such a badass.
And I thought of the people who came out of the woodwork the last time I blogged though half marathon training to tell me that I inspired them to get out and run or walk or do SOMETHING. Because sometimes when you’re a blogger, you know you’re putting your words out there, but it doesn’t always occur to you that someone is reading them, much less getting all inspired and stuff.
And I thought of my girls and how it’s been hard for us to find a regular activity they enjoy sticking with. Rachel’s been grumpy about going to Tae Kwon Do, and Claire’s fighting some self confidence issues in ballet (we’re not even going to talk about soccer). I want them to enjoy what they’re doing, but I also want them to see the commitment and the process of setting a goal and working towards it, even when it’s not all fun and games.
Because at this point, I’m not running because I want to. I’m waiting for that to kick in, that feeling that if I don’t run I’ll be eternally grumpy until Christian hands me my shoes and practically shoves me out the door. That’s what I miss.
Right now I’m running because I have a goal, and I’m going to meet it. Unless my back gives out again, and well….I’d be a liar if I said that a small part of me wouldn’t be just a little relieved if it did.
If you don’t hate running, consider signing up for the ZOOMA Texas half marathon, 10k, or 5k! It’s a fun race, I promise. And you can save 10% by using the code LEIGHANN15.
My alarm goes off at 6:00 every morning, which for some reason sounds excruciatingly early. I stumble out of bed around 6:15, shuffle into the bathroom, wash my face, and try to put my contacts in without getting a fistful of fur in my eye, since the cat decides that this is the best time to jump on the counter and rub all up on me.
I shuffle into the kitchen, shuffle into the girls’ room (I do a lot of shuffling in the pre-dawn hour) and attempt to wake them up. Rachel is super cuddly, but eventually rolls out of bed. Claire is cranky and whiney, but eventually lets me drag her out. We do our best to leave Zoe alone, since she needs her sleep, and wrangling 2 kids is easier than 3 (shocker), but she gets super pissed if she misses out on breakfast with her sisters and often forces herself to wake up and join us.
From the time they are up, it’s a whirlwind of eating breakfast, making lunches, packing snacks, brushing teeth, feeding the cats, getting dressed, brushing teeth, letting the dog out, getting socks on, BRUSH YOUR TEETH, SHOES! SHOES! SHOES! Like, how does one forget to put on the left sock?
Somewhere in there, I manage to get dressed myself. Walk to school, head out for a run (maybe), come home, make coffee and breakfast, shower (maybe?), take Zoe to school, come home, work work work, head out to start the pickup process. Come home, snacks, folders, all of the dishes I neglected throughout the morning, more coffee, clearing space on the table for LEGOs or more drawings or bookmaking, and for the love of cheese fries, please hang up your backpack before I trip over it again.
Coffee or no coffee, once the late afternoon rolls around, I am beat and want nothing more than to flop on the couch, but then it’s what’s for dinner? then panicking about dinner and then the actual making of the dinner. Then it’s eat your dinner, sit on your bottom, and no, sour cream is not an acceptable side dish.
Baths (maybe), brushing teeth, dry yourself off, PJs, books, lullabies, lights out. I finally flop on the couch and listen to the giggles and the continued craziness that comes with three girls sharing the same room and wonder when will this not be chaotic? Where are the slow-moving evenings I remember as a kid, where there were no drill sergeants, where I would jump into my dad’s lap as he watched TV and breathed into his face so he could smell that I brushed my teeth?
I’m exhausted. During these days there’s no time for writing, or if there’s time, there are no words or inclination. I’ve opened up countless drafts, only to stare at the white space of doom. I can’t seem to find time to vacuum, fold the laundry, contact that person about that thing, clean the bathrooms, but in reality, when there is time, I have to choose between doing those things or taking a much needed break. I feel the constant push and pull of the “need tos” and the “want tos” and wonder how everyone else balances it all out, how they fit life into their life.
In the evenings I start dreaming of going to bed with my book at 9pm. I want to write. I need to straighten up that dining room table. I should do those strength exercises I put off earlier. But all I really want to do is dial up some Netflix and binge watch Friday Night Lights, because let’s face it – that’s the only way this laundry is going to get folded.
As a member of the Netflix Stream Team, each month I share my favorite things to stream online.
I haven’t been watching much of anything new lately on the Netflix. I’ve been deeply entrenched in Friday Night Lights. Yes, STILL. I’m in the middle of season 2, and I’ve determined that Tami Taylor can do no wrong, Tim Riggins is a just misunderstood puppy, and Julie Taylor is the most annoying TV character ever. I love it.
So much of the streaming exploration these days has been happening at the hands of my children. I’m not going to lie, the day they learned to work the remote and navigate Netflix was a magical one. But it also means I have a little less control over what they are watching. Depending on how much I am paying attention. I mean, JK, I am always paying attention! LOLOLOL!
So one day they discovered this show called Larva and chose to watch episode after episode instead of our usual Saturday night movie. It’s a Korean animated show about two silly worms in a sewer – glamorous, I know – and their many silly escapades. Each episode contains several short cartoons, filled with lots of physical comedy. And lots of farting. Naturally, they love it. Christian and I…may be rethinking this. After this next short where the red worm eats some nasty crumbs that fall down the sewer grate and toots uncontrollably on the yellow worm. (Spoiler alert: In season 2 they are upgraded to a nice apartment in the city!)
Then when Claire was sick with the flu, I let her lay in my bed and watch whatever she wanted while I worked. She chose…every single Monster High movie in the entire Netflix archives. I never intended to get my girls into Monster High. I cringed a little when Claire received a doll for her birthday last year, but it immediately became her very favorite thing – and still is. She was even a character for Halloween. And the cartoons aren’t terrible, aside from the short skirts and impossibly high heels that no one – even monsters – would ever wear in high school. Then again, it’s been a while since I was in high school.
Finally, the other night, bereft of other appealing options to agree on, we found ourselves watching The Interview with Seth Rogan and James Franco. It was….a Seth Rogan and James Franco movie. A Seth Rogan and James Franco movie that I am really glad I did not pay to see. But to be honest, you gotta know what you’re going in to when you dial up a Seth Rogan/James Franco flick. Let’s just say we weren’t watching it to gain knowledge and increase brain cells. I’m pretty sure it was the opposite of that.
So yes, that’s about it. I’m bummed that I don’t have any great recommendations for everyone, because I usually like to find the hidden gems on Netflix. But our Netflix viewing was kind of a bust this month. Mainly because I have been gobbling up Friday Night Lights at any given chance. #sorrynotsorry
In other Netflix news, there is some really fun stuff that has come out that my kids have also checked out and heartily approved.
The Adventures of Puss in Boots has the fun spirit of the movie, but with new characters and adventures for Puss and his boots. I am a sucker for that damn cat.
Snow Buddies is the next up in a long line of Buddies movies that my girls are all crazy about. Puppies will never not be cute. Puppies in show? Oh em gee.
What have you been watching lately?
So I logged on to type up this here post, and… went straight to the GoDaddy screen. Wha? Turns out my domain expired? Some kind of confusion between the 13th and the 18th? I get it. 3s and 8s look alike. I promised my IT guy I wouldn’t fire him JUST yet, as long as he promised that this would never happen again, and also bring me home some of those yummy yogurt-covered pretzels while you’re at it.
ANYWAY. Back to the reason we’re really all here today:
COME PLAY IN MY WORLD! I SEE YOU! KILL THE COWS! FOLLOW ME TO MY HOUSE! NO NOT THAT WAY! KILL THAT SHEEP! GAHHHHH WHERE YOU GOING COME BAAAAACK!!!!
My God the shouting. The angst. The shouting. The ordering of what to do on an iPad that you are not even using.
Rachel likes to build elaborate houses with winding staircases and glowstone pathways. Claire likes to hoard a bunch of TNT and watch it explode. They both delight in digging large pits, spawning a bunch of cows and sheep in them, and then killing them off one by one with arrows. Nothing weird about that.
Personal space? I KNOW NOT OF WHICH YOU SPEAK, GOOD SIR.
When they play together here at home, they sync both iPads into Rachel’s world. That world has a name, and that name, until yesterday, was BIG JUGS, because that is an appropriate name for the 4-6-year-old set, right? I’m 99.9% sure it was thought up by the guy who forgot that his kids can actually read.
So now there’s, “Come into my world! It’s called BIG JUGS!”
And “Isn’t BIG JUGS fun?”
And “I love BIG JUGS.”
To which Christian replies, “Me too, kid. Me too.”
P.S. One night after they went to bed, Christian handed me an iPad and ordered me to play Minecraft. And I was like, Whatever. I don’t need that dumb game. I have work to do. And then like an hour later I was all DAMMIT MINECRAFT! WHY YOU SO FUN?
P.P.S. My version of fun is building a brick house with a cool stone fireplace and some sweet under-window bookshelves. In case any of you were wondering how we keep the magic alive up in here.
Rule #1 of nearing the end of winter break and the beginning of the new school semester: Don’t celebrate too heartily, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my almost 7 years of parenting, it’s that when you haven’t had a day (an hour!) to yourself in 3 weeks and you really have some work and introverting to catch up on…someone’s gonna get sick. The universe is all LOLOLOLOL that’s cute.
Claire started running a fever Monday night. School was due to start on Tuesday. So I kept her home, and she was jumping on the trampoline by lunchtime, and I really thought that would be the end of it. But soon she was back on the couch and her temperature crept back up, and I knew. Usually I wait a sickness out for a couple of days, but as soon as the fever and coughing started, I had a feeling that we had been blessed with the flu. This isn’t my first flu-rodeo. So Tuesday through Thursday she was home, we had 3 prescriptions for Tamiflu, and I just prayed that no one else would get it. Mainly Christian, because if there’s anything more pathetic than a 6-year-old with the flu, it’s a 36-year-old with the man-flu.
By 7:32am Friday I was (happily!) (but lovingly!) shoving her cute (non-contagious!) (fever-free!) little butt down the sidewalk to school. I really enjoyed having the girls home during the break, but it was time to go back, and we both knew it. I may have cursed the “24 hours fever free” rule that kept her home on Thursday, bouncing off the walls with boredom and Tamiflu-induced mania, but okay, I enjoyed the extra snuggles we got that day, also the nap I took on the couch while she and Zoe did something extremely loud, but not destructive enough to bother me in the other room.
We’ve watched every single episode of Wild Kratts. And Ninjago. We learned that Wii controllers are endlessly frustrating for little hands. We were reassured that Tamiflu still drives our kids batshit crazy.
We also discovered that kids are much more willing to take nasty medicine if you immediately hand them a spoonful of chocolatey Nutella goodness. After begging and pleading and really not understanding why they wouldn’t just get it over with, I’m now having to turn down requests for medicine and chocolate. Sometimes this parenting gig is so damn simple, it kills me.
And despite the fact that she coughed in my face 847 times, NO ONE ELSE CAUGHT IT.
My mother-in-law has been visiting for the past two and a half weeks for the holidays. As she’s made herself at home – which I hope any guest would do – and we do the dance of merging lifestyles, I’ve started to realize that I may be a little….weird. You go through life a certain way, and it’s your normal. But tell someone that you alphabetize your bookshelves that you have a thing for Weird Al, and suddenly you’re the village outcast.
Everyone’s got a little weird in them, and now that I’ve listed them, they don’t really seem all that different to me. But I get enough “You are so weird!” from my husband that I’m feeling that maybe I’m walking to the beat of a different drum.
For starters, I alphabetize my bookshelves. How else am I supposed to find that book that I read three years ago that I just know my neighbor will love? Look, color coordinated libraries are aesthetically pleasing and all, but no one’s actually reading those books.
I’m not crazy about massages. Let me clarify. I don’t seek out massages. The last full body massage I got was when I was suffering from an aching back that could only come from constant holding and rocking of two 4-month-olds. Did it feel good? Yes. Did I want her to keep massaging my scalp for another hour or so? Yes. Am I keen on strangers touching me? Not at all. Would it be creepy to ooh and aah when she hit the right spots? Possibly. Was I unsure whether or not I was supposed to leave my underwear on? Totally. My awkwardness and I are best left out of the massage parlors.
I’m OCD about sorting the laundry. Certain items only get washed with certain items, a habit I developed when I had a limited wardrobe of nice work clothing that I needed to keep in tip top condition. Whites with whites, blacks/navies with blacks/navies, sheets with sheets. Jeans and towels NEVER go in with regular clothing, since they can cause unnecessary wear and tear. Hang dry anything that you don’t want to fade, pill, or shrink. These are the laws of Leigh Ann’s laundry room. I realize a lot of people do this already, but not everyone, and when my MIL visits, it makes me seem SUPER controlling. Unfortunately, that’s about where the laundry OCD ends. *gives major side-eye to basket full of unfolded clothes*
I thought Grease was meh. I didn’t even see the musical until I was in college, when a coworker fainted dead away when she learned I’d never experienced it. She brought me her own personal VHS copy, and I was…underwhelmed. It just didn’t live up to the hype. I’ve also never been a huge John Travolta fan. That chin divot freaks me out.
I speak in This American Life episodes. I’ve listened to so many podcasts in such a short amount of time, I can find an opportunity in just about any conversation to insert a story I heard on TAL. Immigration issues? I’ve got a story for that. Geneology and skeletons in the family closet? I’ve got one for that too. Sleepwalking? Yup.
I don’t really watch TV. This is becoming more and more of a thing, but Christian and I were the true cable-free pioneers of the 21st century. Now only watching from Netflix or Amazon or Raffi or something is commonplace, even cool. But we gave it up years ago when we realized that even our favorite shows were piling up on our DVR, and we had neither the time nor the desire to watch them. And my parents still never fail to ask if I’m watching “that show” or if I’ve seen “that commercial.”
I don’t touch seafood. Well, very, very, very rarely. If it’s deep fried and covered in sauce, then I may be able to overlook the rancid smell or the unpleasant texture.
I need to detox after intense social engagements. I’m not talking intense conversation, but more like constant talking and mmmhmmm…. and oh really….. and WOW CAN WE STOP FUCKING TALKING PLEASE THANK YOU. Sometimes – okay, often – okay, usually in the car with three loud children and an introvert-oblivious husband – I fantasize that a glass tube would plop around me and shut me off from everyone. In the car on the way home after one such engagement, I had a mini-come-to-Jesus moment where I explained that I just needed no one to talk to me for about 5-7 minutes. Preferably the rest of the afternoon.
Social engagements also = long days home with kids.
I prefer Martin Freeman over Benedict Cumberbatch. But I’ll take Detective Inspector Lestrade over both.
I’m middle-brained. It’s usually assumed that I’m right-brained, since I’m left-handed and have spent the better part of my life in creative pursuits. But I have enough decent abilities in logical subjects to balance out both sides. All that really means is that I am usually plagued with indecisiveness and have a hell of a time choosing between my gut instincts and my logical brain. I’ve and near-panic attacks in front of the paint chips at Home Depot.
What’s your weirdness? Let your freak flag fly!