I ran. I RAN! I ran.
It was only a mile – 1.09 if we’re bring specific – but it felt so, so good.
Actually I’m lying. It felt terrible. I’m so out of shape.
I survived the mile with no pain, really. Honestly, my back was a little off that day, so after the run I did my therapy and hoped for the best. My legs and hips are sore, good feelings that mean I challenged my body in a way it hadn’t been challenged in a while. My back is feeling…okay.
To back up a little bit here, this was my first run since January, when I finally hung up my running shoes because the sciatica was too painful. I went straight to an orthopedist, where I learned that sciatica isn’t really a diagnosis; it’s a symptom being caused by something else. In my case, that something else was a herniated disc.
Few things make you feel old like having a herniated disc.
My journey to wellness has been a roller coaster of frustration, small victories that didn’t last long, and painful setbacks that did last long.
I visited a chiropractor regularly for several weeks. She told me that by visiting her x number of times per week, I could get better in several months. I eventually stopped going because I was busy and stressed (LTYM season), running around to doctor or therapy appointments or meetings almost every day. I needed a break, and the regular adjustments didn’t seem to be helping anyway.
I started physical therapy with the orthopedist’s PT branch in March, where I learned about McKenzie method. I usually left there feeling pretty good, but even just sitting in the car on the way home was enough to put me right back into pain mode.
In April, with no end in sight, I relented and went in for a steroid shot. I laid face down on the table, and the doctor injected me with a shot of cortisone right in the lower back. And the pain was gone. It was like a miracle. I kept expecting my left side to be weak when I walked, or expecting pain to start shooting down my leg, but there was none. I was all, “Did you see that? I got up from that chair and didn’t want to cry!”
Seriously, it’s the little things.
But alas, it wasn’t meant to last. I got the shot just days before I left for the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Workshop, and I can tell you that I never would have survived that trip – flights, hours sitting in sessions – without that shot. It was a godsend, but a short-lived one. Within weeks I felt the pain creeping back again. Like that psycho ex-girlfriend that just won’t go away.
And honestly, I felt like this pain was never going to really go away.
Here’s the frustrating thing about this injury, and probably any injury. You don’t know what’s really going to work for you unless you try all the things. And that takes a lot of time, and before you know it’s you’ve been living with this pain for months. Everyone has a different opinion on what will help you. And a lot of the time, those opinions contradict each other.
The orthopedist said I’ll likely have flare-ups the rest of my life. They seemed to think PT would help, but if that didn’t work, “You should get a steroid shot.” And if that doesn’t work, come back and get another one. They didn’t seem to think I should ever run again.
The physical therapist said that I could be better in 6 – 8 weeks. He seemed to NOT want me to get a shot, because although that would alleviate my symptoms chemically, it wouldn’t really solve my problem. But I would run again someday.
The chiropractor was all for getting a shot if it helped manage my pain, but she still wanted to see me 87 times a week for the rest of my livelong days. (I’m exaggerating.) (But not by much.)
When the physical therapist cut me loose after 12 weeks or so, waiting to see what the orthopedist would say at my follow up, it was just kind of a “Well, good luck to you!” send off.
That’s when I really started to feel helpless.
Some days I felt better, some days I didn’t, and the fluctuations weren’t consistent with any of my treatments. Around that same time, a friend who was suffering from a similar issue recommended her therapist, who specialized in Active Release Therapy. I was no stranger to the name Dr. Wag, since a few of my other running friends had also waxed poetic about him for their various injuries. But the most enticing part? This friend was feeling loads better and was back to running and CrossFit.
When people ask me how ART differs from regular physical therapy, the only way I can think to put it is, “Well, it’s kinda like a good, old fashioned butt rub.” Also it’s important to note that I am not a doctor.
When you’ve been in pain for so long, sometimes it’s hard to tell if you’re improving, or if you’re just so used to being in pain that you’ve kinda grown accustomed to it. Me and pain, best friends forever!
Twice a week I would go in and lay on a table and move my leg around while Dr. Wag tried to convince my stubborn muscles to let go of that nerve and give my poor aching rear end a break already. Over time the ART, along with some Trigger Point therapy and me doing about a million McKenzie press ups per day, really started to work. After maybe 3 months I was able to say I was at 85%, then 90%. Unlike the other doctors and therapists, I felt like here they treated ME, not my symptoms. Dr. Wag knew that getting back to running was important to me, and from the beginning, that was our goal.
I went from feeling like I would never get better – and I’m not being dramatic; I really did think that – to actually feeling better.
And then I was given the okay to slowly start running again. Slowly. I haven’t run since January. I am extremely out of shape. I started off slow, to see how my back held up. And it felt so damn good, until my legs got tired and my breathing was off, and my brain was confused because it was accustomed to leisurely strolls to the voice of Ira Glass and now there was music coming from my earbuds and the expectation that my body was supposed to move faster.
Dr. Wag thinks I will definitely be able to train for a half marathon in the spring, “Or maybe even a full!”
Slow your roll, Doc. I don’t plan on running a full marathon until, well, never.
But for now, I hope my body is indeed ready to run. Because my mind is more than ready.
A few weeks ago at a splash pad, my friend Lori asked if I thought Christian and I could get away for a weekend and drive up to party town Thakerville, Oklahoma for some kid-free time and to gamble and the WinStar Hotel and Casino.
I told her I didn’t think so. I mean, who would watch our kids?
“Just drop them off with your parents in Dallas on the way up. That’s what we’re doing.”
And I said, “Oh, Iiiiiiii don’t knowwwwwww……..probably not…..” Big sigh of disappointment.
But Lori was all, “Come on. It’s your anniversary weekend! They’ll be fine! It’s just one night! We can play some poker, enjoy time with NO KIDS, and, I don’t know, Tears for Fears or somebody is playing there that night….” Her voice started to trail off, but not before I caught onto the most important bit of information.
And I was like, “WHAT? TEARS FOR FEARS?”
I LOVE Tears for Fears. I’m a little young to be a true child of the 80s, so I was originally introduced to them through their 1993 album Elemental, which featured one of my favorite songs of all time. I still remember sitting and watching it over and over on MTV. Because yes, kids, MTV did show music videos at one time.
And she was all, “…..Do you like Tears for Fears?” She looked at me incredulously, like I had just admitted to carrying Justin Bieber’s love child.
And I was all, “Are you kidding?” I started sit-dancing on my little towel and jamming out, “Break it down again!”
And she was all, “…………”
And then I was like, “Shout. Shout. Let it all out!”
And she looked at me like, “…………..”
And I looked at her like, “………..Sowing in the seeds of love! The seeds of love!”
And she was all, “Well, yeah, I guess we can –”
“SOWING IN THE SEEDS!”
So then I went home and completely flooded her Facebook wall with Tears for Fears YouTube videos, because although she’s 3 years older than me, she obviously isn’t hip to the music of her 80s brethren. I will forgive her.
We booked the hotel, nabbed some VIP-seating concert tickets, and then I was like, Oh. Maybe I should call my mom and make sure they can actually watch my kids that weekend.
This was a big step for us. See, I’ve never really left my kids with anyone else before. We stole a night away a couple of years ago when my mother-in-law was in town, but that was here in Austin. We were only a few miles away. This time they would be in a completely different setting where they’ve never slept before, and I would be over an hour away. Where would they all sleep? Could my parents and sister handle all three of them, plus my sister’s daughter? Would they brush their teeth?
I may be a bit of a control freak.
And then Lori was all, “Who cares?”
We got to Thackerville around 2:00, checked in, and headed downstairs to the casino to find our friends. Massive doesn’t exactly describe the WinStar – it’s an understatement – and I regretted not bringing my step counter, because I imagine I walked about 10 miles in the 22 hours we were there.
We hadn’t gambled since we got married and spent a couple of days in Shreveport. You know, the post-nuptials trip that you don’t really want to describe as a “honeymoon,” because spending 2 days in a musty-smelling riverboat isn’t exactly how you want your honeymoon to be perceived. But it is what it is. Christian was looking forward to playing some Blackjack, but I hadn’t planned on much of anything. Some of those Blackjack players were SERIOUS. I was like, “Dude. This is a $5 minimum bet. Take your drama over to the $10 table.”
Lori taught me how to play 3 Card Poker, so that’s where I lost most of my money. The odds were crappy and there was a $.50 ante every hand, but what the hell. It was more fun and comfortable and I didn’t have to pretend I wasn’t holding a flush, which is a shame, because I actually do have a killer poker face.
Now you may laugh and say, “What in the hell is Tears for Fears doing playing in a ballroom in a casino in Thackerville, Oklahoma?” I’ll tell you what they were doing. They were killing it.
Sometimes I think about bands that have been together for 30+ years (they did break up from ’91 – 2000), and I wonder if they still love the music, or are they just keeping their noses to the proverbial grindstone? Do they still get a thrill playing their biggest hits, or do they groan every time they have to play the songs that gave them their greatest success?
I really hope not. Roland and Curt (can I call you Roland and Curt?) really did seem to have a great time on stage with each other and with the rest of their band. They were personable and funny and oh-so-British.
The next day my children were all present and accounted for when I picked them up, and 30 minutes into our drive home I kinda wanted to take them back just a little.
And now, a million concert photos.
If there is one sentence I can say to sum up how I truly feel about Anna Whiston-Donaldson’s Rare Bird: A Memoir of Loss and Love, it would be this:
This book is a gift.
And I will always feel like I cannot do this book justice in a review.
Just over three years ago, Anna was an ordinary mom with two children. Then one day, just over three years ago, Anna’s life was turned upside down when she lost her 12-year-old son, Jack, in a freak flash flood.
That summed up all I knew about Anna’s story before I read her book.
What I didn’t realize was how much I would be changed by reading Anna’s story, how much her journey through grief and pain and faith would comfort me. How it would make me a bigger believer in forces at work that are larger than all of us.
Rare Bird is not meant to be a sad book. There are moments that made me tear up, moments that made me sob, and moments that left me heartbroken as Anna and her family grapple with the fact that life must indeed go on after losing her son. But as one makes their way through the book, Anna’s journey is peppered with surprises, signs, and incredible wisdom. I came away in awe of the unshakable faith in God that Anna describes Jack having. I came away comforted by the closeness that Anna felt with God as she grieved.
“It’s about anger and profound sadness, but also about a flicker of hope that comes from the realization that in times of heartbreak, God is closer than our own skin. It’s about His being real and showing up in the pain.” – Anna Whiston-Donaldson, Rare Bird
Whether you’ve suffered a tragic loss or not, Anna’s words are relatable and her voice real. Because Rare Bird is not a story of a little boy dying. It is the journey of a family who endures one of the most difficult things imaginable and how they come together, fall apart, and live through this terrible time. Throughout the book, Anna is incredibly honest and transparent about her fears, her doubts, and even her faith, and how each of these plays a part in her tumultuous trek through grief.
But best of all, Rare Bird leaves the reader filled with hope in the knowledge that our loved ones are still with us long after they’ve gone.
Rare Bird is a gift.
You can find Rare Bird at the following retailers:
You can find Anna at her blog, An Inch of Gray.
I received an advanced reader copy of Rare Bird for review. All opinions are my own.
This project would work so many ways, I hate to call it something so terribly exciting and narrow as “diy bird plaque.” But, well, it’s a bird on a wooden plaque, so here we are.
I’ve been putting together a gallery wall for my dining room for ages. Only it’s been all in my head, so the majority of the pieces have been leaning against the intended wall. The kids kept tripping on them, one of them broke, and I kept having to vacuum around them.
Actually my husband had to vacuum around them because he does 96% of the vacuuming around here.
My goal was to start it with several pieces, mixing sizes and styles, and expand the gallery wall as I collected more. Basically, I wast willing to wait until I had a whole wall’s worth of pieces. But I hadn’t hung anything yet because I felt like I needed a few more things to make it doable. I finally bit the bullet one weekend and decided that I needed to get it started. That tends to happen when you have a news crew coming to your house and you realize that the gigantic red wall you’ve been staring at for 8 years looks kinda stark. (More on news crew later. It’s ridiculous in the most fun way what happens when people find your blog sometimes.)
ANYWAY. Along with the framed items, I wanted to mix in other types of hangings. I discovered a package of bird prints that I had gotten from IKEA a while back (um, last year) tucked away in my craft shelves in the garage. None of the frames I had on hand were a fit for either the prints OR the gallery wall, since I was dangerously close to having too many plain, black frames of similar sizes. But I did have some wooden plaques sitting around from another project that never really saw its way to fruition.
See, it kinda pays to hang onto stuff like a semi-hoarder, right?
I am going through a bird phase, and I love fun little bird prints. And then I just had the perfect idea for how to marry the prints and the plaques.
First step, I used some slightly old white craft paint to paint the plaque. Like, if paint came with an expiration date, this one would be well past its sell-by date. That’s the price I pay for being spontaneous. (Fun fact: I’m never spontaneous. Just woefully unprepared.)
Since I wanted the bird to blend into the plaque as much as possible, I needed the crispest white there was. It took a few coats, and because I’m lazy, I just let it glue itself to that paper I was using as a table cover. When it was dry I just tore the paper off. A wiser person might use an X-Acto knife.
Next I cut out the bird, getting as close to the edges of the illustration as I was comfortable. Because the fun lines of the outer edges of the bird needed to stay intact, I didn’t cut right along the lines.
I played with composition a bit with the bird to find exactly the right spot. The most pleasing compositions are slightly off-center, but depending on the image, sometimes smack dab in the center works too. I really wanted my bird friend to look like he was about to hop right off the plaque. Not to high, not too low, not too centered. I’m happy with where he landed.
I used Mod Podge to adhere the image to the plaque. After a few minutes (because I am impatient), I then covered the entire plaque with a layer of Mod Podge. It dries completely clear. Since the only brush I could find that was large enough to give me god coverage was an old oil painting brush of mine (coarse bristles) there are a few brushstrokes showing in my piece. A softer brush or even a foam brush will give a smoother finish. But like I said – impatient.
After the Mod Podge dried, I had to attach a doohickey on the back for hanging, like so.
I adhered it with Liquid Nails because I don’t mess around.
And here it is, in its home on the not-quite-completed-but-at-least-I-got-started gallery wall.
You like the ring of beads hanging from my chandelier and that white spot that indicates a missing chunk of red wall? Me too.
I love the various sizes and styles of the pieces. Some of them are thrifted, and some came from other places in my home. The center piece is a Banksy print that my husband gave me for my birthday last year, and I love it to pieces. I am NOT in love with the Caffe Latte piece. I actually bought that with the intention of painting over the caffe latte. But that’s another spontaneous project for another spontaneous day.
Another view of the wall behind our dining room table. What’s funny is that I finally arranged a desk in my bedroom that gives me CLEAR WORKING SPACE PARAMETERS. I guess I missed sitting on this crappy bench in the middle of the chaotic house. But seeing as Zoe was next to me making snowflakes, I think the company was worth it.
What projects are you working on?
First grade started off kind of lacking in some fanfare. Rachel and Claire pretty much knew the drill, so there were no indignant cries of “We have to go back TOMORROW???” or crying each night because the day was too long.
We have, however, already started the ritualistic Refusing to Get Out of Bed. And a few Battles of the Breakfast.
I try to get as much information out of them as I can, but it’s tough. Instead of “How was your day,” I ask specific questions about P.E. or art class or recess. Who did you sit next to at lunch? What did you do in music class? Why in heaven’s name do you never eat your grapes?
The problem is, they kind of like to make stuff up.
In Rachel’s class last week, they played Marco Polo, which also happens to be one of her favorite games. And Claire (who’s class is across the hall) was there. And another girl from Claire’s class. And Claire’s best friend (who is in an entirely different class). All convening in Rachel’s classroom to play Marco Polo. A standard part of the first grade curriculum, I’m sure. I chalked it up to excitement about the day and let it slide.
On the walk home one day, Claire described in great detail how she went on a field trip that morning. Just her and her teacher. To a farm. I asked her if she was thinking about how she went to the pumpkin patch the year before, but no, she assured me, she and her teacher rode a bus to a farm. Just the two of them.
“So…just you and Mrs. C?”
“Yeah. Oh, and Serenity.”
On this delusional field trip, they held baby chicks and even got to bring one back, and they named her Coconut, and now I’m kind of suspecting that this story MIGHT contain a few embellishments. Like all of the embellishments. I’m also kinda jealous that I didn’t get to go to the farm.
So I said, “Coconut’s a really great name, but are you sure you really went to a farm today?”
I love that my girls have imaginations. Some might even use the term “overactive.” But all good things must come to an end, and since flat out calling your 6-year-old a liar is frowned upon, I decided it was time to bring her back to reality by asking her if this really happened, or if she was making it up. Basically, I threatened that if I asked her teacher, would their stories gel?
And she was all, “Oh, you’re right Mama. I was just kidding.”
Earlier in the week I had asked Rachel if she remembered the names of the kids she sat next to, visualizing her desk near the backpacks, where it was on the first day of school.
“No. I don’t sit there anymore,” she told me.
“Yeah. I – I moved.” She stutters and looks all shifty-eyed, and I’m not sure if I believe her.
“Oh, why? Where to?”
“I sit over by Isabella [her bestie] now. Mrs. H moved me. Because she wanted me and Isabella to be together.”
“Uh huhhhhh……” I’m starting to lose confidence in her story. Who else do you sit next to? What part of the classroom is it in? The Marco Polo and the farm have made me cynical and suspicious.
So the next morning I walked her to her class as usual, because you can’t make me drop them at front the door yet, teachers. Please, just give me this.
I peeked into her room, and sure enough, her desk was in a completely different spot, practically back to back with her best friend.
So the moral of the story is that I have absolutely zero ability to tell when my kids are telling the truth or not, so they had better take advantage of this before I figure things out. Kids, this is your chance to stay out past curfew and spend time at some less-than-first-grade-approved locations. Just tell Mom and Dad you’re at the bouncy house at the mall.
And yesterday when Rachel pulled one of those “crazy straws” out of her backpack and said that a monster named Bloober gave it to her? I was like, “Okay! Whatever.”
Every single summer I see people (via my Facebook feed) going outside and enjoying the sunshine. Cookouts, picnics, trips to the park…it’s all very idyllic and such.
Yeah, we don’t really do that here in Texas. Our summers are spent mostly indoors, unless there’s water involved. The kids haven’t wanted to go out and play on the trampoline (too hot), blow bubbles (too many mosquitoes), or go for a walk (“I’LL MELT, MOMMY.”) Part of me wants to tell them to buck up, because this is where we live, and unbearable heat from May – October is kind of a thing here. But the other part of me really likes air conditioning.
A few weeks ago I received a backpack filled with toys on behalf of imagine toys and KaBOOM!’s Go Out and Play Collection. What I loved about it was that the toys were totally old school – no newfangled contraptions or fancy versions of classic toys. With a frisbee, two jump ropes, and two packages of sidewalk chalk, these WERE the classic toys. And I was thrilled to see how the girls immediately took everything outside and started playing.
I love throwing things with Christian. Or at him. Take that how you will. As soon as we started reintroducing ourselves to the art of the frisbee, Zoe and Rachel were begging to play too. Have you ever taught a 4 or 6-year-old to throw a frisbee? No? You practically have to be an engineer, or an Eagle Scout or something. Or maybe just better at explaining things than I am. But Zoe picked it up immediately (girl’s got an ARM), and Rachel stuck with it until she got the hang of it, which made me super proud, because my big girls don’t exactly have the “determination” app installed.
Meanwhile, Claire took to the sidewalk chalk and some bubbles that we always keep handy outside and cheered us on while we tossed the frisbee around.
In the heat.
And the humidity.
With no chance of a breeze.
And it was awesome.
Since then, Zoe’s asked just about every day to go out and throw the frisbee. We’ve taken the sidewalk chalk to a whole new level on the trampoline. And we’ve attempted the jump ropes, but I think I’m going to have to hire that one out. Anyone willing to come teach my kids to swing and jump over a piece of rope?
It’ll cool off here in the coming weeks, and I’m really excited to get my girls back outside to play. Nothing makes me happier than seeing them spend hours in the backyard, losing themselves in their imaginations.
More about KaBOOM!: KaBOOM! is the national non-profit dedicated to giving kids the childhood they deserve by bringing play to those who need it most. They’ve partnered with imagine toys to bring you the Go Out and Play Collection, which aims to get families outside and give kids the balance of active play that they need to thrive. Since 1996, KaBOOM! has has mapped over 100,000 places to play, built more than 2,400 playgrounds, and successfully advocated for play policies in hundreds of cities across the country. A percentage of each purchase from the Go Out and Play Collection goes back to KaBOOM! For more information, visit KaBOOM.org.
I received a KaBOOM essentials kit for review. All opinions and complaints about the Texas heat are my own.
Obligatory first day of school photos in front of the door! First day of first grade.
Claire had her heart set on her long skirt and tank top. Rachel originally picked out a skirt, but chickened out and opted for shorts and her new Rainbow Dash tee. I wasn’t surprised.
Awkward smiles! Notice the Ninja Turtle tats that I was strictly forbidden from scrubbing off in the previous night’s bath.
Some pre-walk fussing of the drawstring shorts and “Look at mah roly poly!”
Oh me? In the picture? Well okay then. Sorry about my hair, everyone. IT’S EARLY.
SERIOUSLY. The cuteness. It burns.
Claire went right in and was all, “MY PURPLE SCISSORS!” Easy to please, this one.
Rachel was a little shy and shrunk away from her teacher, but couldn’t resist giving Zoe a huge goodbye choke-hug. Her bestie is in her class, so that helps.
Sad Zoe is sad that she can’t go to school yet. She demanded that we snuggle on the couch and watch Frozen at 8:30 am, and I was like “SOLD.”
Happy first week of school!
It’s the last day before school starts here in Austin. I’m feeling….sad. But excited. Anxious. But ready.
A few nights ago Claire plainly told me she was a little nervous about school.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because I’ll miss you,” she answered. She still complains that school is too long of a day. I could do without the 7:45 start time myself.
I’ll miss them too. We’ve done our best to make the most of the last week of summer. I vowed to do something fun every day, but I can’t keep up that charade. So we did plenty of fun, at the park and the pool (which had already instituted shortened hours thanks to a football practice induced lifeguard shortage). We went spent an entire day at SeaWorld Aquatica, because someone (not me) thought it closed at 8, but it really closed at 6, so then we rushed over to see the penguins before the park closed. We made banana muffins. We played outside. We snuggled.
When I was at physical therapy last week, my therapist asked if I was excited about school starting.
“Eh. Kinda. Not really.”
“I think you’re the only person who’s answered that way,” he said.
I can’t explain it. I surprise myself even with my hesitance. I mean, I’m ready. Ready for some alone time. Ready to grocery shop during the weekday daylight hours again. Ready to not hear a snack request every 10 minutes Ready to be able to clean my house without someone right behind me, undoing all of my work. But I’ll miss them terribly.