What Crazy Looks Like

I'm what crazy looks like.  I admit it.  If crazy is repeating the same activity and expecting a different result, then I'm guilty.

For over ten years, I was a runner.  I ran distances from the one mile to a 50k ultramarathon.  I never won, you understand.  But I trained for every race as if my legs might suddenly find wings.  I had fantasies of losing ten pounds and suddenly being a LOT faster.  It never happened-- even when I lost the ten pounds.  Then I had John Robert.  Then Spencer.  Then Denver.  I began not to feel like a runner anymore.  Runners train for races.  I have mostly done yoga and taken walks for about a decade.

Yesterday, for the first time in years, I ran a race.  I'm not talking about pushing a double jogging stroller or trotting alongside one of my sons in the Fun Run.  I mean: I entered The Pancake Stampede 5k with the ridiculous hope of winning the women's division. 

That's me at the starting line in a hot pink shirt on the far left.

I trained.  I stretched.  I got nervous the night before.  I ate a Gu at the starting line.  When the race began, I was near the front.  (It was a small race.  It was 26 degrees.  We were all fools to be out there at all!).  I found the only woman ahead of me, and tried to stay on her lime green shoulder as we descended a hill and entered the icy, muddy, offroad portion of the race.  By the end of the first mile, I knew I was running a blistering pace that couldn't hold.  It didn't.  Lime green woman ran off and left me.  Other women began to pass me, including a seven year old girl running with her mom and giggling.  Forgive me, but I wanted to trip her and leap over the body.  How could she jog past me so easily?  Didn't she know I had trained?!

Coming up the big hill to the half way point, I was sure that despite the freakishly strong women passing me, I was at least setting a PR.  Wrong again.  90 seconds slower than I had hoped.  I dug in to see what I could do.  I decided to finish this race with nothing left to give.  I passed a good looking guy who was also very out of shape.  I passed a tall man who was shuffling along with his hands in his pockets.  I passed Lime Green woman on an incline.  "Hi, Kim!", she shouted as I went by.  Oh my, it was Mattie Moon, the wonderful teacher at the Montessori School and daughter of a friend.  I greeted her, felt slightly embarrassed that I'd been happy about passing her, and continued running.

The last half mile is all uphill.  I dug in.  "Nothing left.  Nothing left," I puffed to myself.  The marvelous race volunteers cheered, "Way to go, Ladies!" as I passed.  I heard the plural.  As silly as it seems-- the prize for winning the race was a bottle of syrup or a spatula, and I wasn't even winning-- I didn't want to be passed.

I found another gear.  I lifted my knees and increased turnover.  The air was so cold, my throat hurt from breathing.  I saw the finish line and sprinted toward it like the Holy Land.

There was polite applause, or maybe the volunteers were simply trying to keep warm.  I walked a few more steps and then bent over to rest and possibly vomit.  My tank was empty.  I'd done my best.  My time?  Blistering nine minute miles.  The slowest 5k I have ever run.  Sad, but true.  Nevertheless, I came in 19th.  And there were more than 19 runners!  That sounds so much better than nine minute miles!

The rest of the day is a blur of family duties, resting, and mulling over the little race: I was proud of my effort and appalled by my results.  Maybe for the next race, I can bring my german shepard; and people will be afraid to pass me; especially seven year old little girls!



   

On His Way to Blackbelt

Spencer made his commitment to become a blackbelt yesterday.  This means three more years of hard work and daily practice.  He is excited, and I am a proud Momma (who can drive to the karate studio in her sleep!).

Spencer has been studying karate for over a year.  Yesterday, he had his picture taken for placement on a special display at the studio.  Demonstrating his kicks, punches, and weapons, Spencer posed for many pictures while I wrote a check for the sitting fee.  I didn't mind.  Karate has been transformative for Spencer, and for me.

Spencer began karate when he was struggling to keep his head up.  Never a child to be brimming with confidence and wide smiles, Spencer was depressed for no known reason.  He cried a lot.  No one-- despite our best efforts-- knew why or what to do.  Hugs and kisses weren't enough.  I didn't want to try any sort of medication.  My parents were kind enough to offer karate lessons; something Spencer was very interested in, but too expensive for our budget.  Spencer embraced it: practicing almost every day, getting very nervous before every practice, and becoming upset whenever he made a mistake in class.  Still, he loved it and still does.  There is something about karate.  Is it the shouting?  The military style discipline?  The running, kicking, punching?  The high flying sidekicks?  The kind, patient teachers who are not too much older than himself?  Whatever it is, it works for Spencer. 

In the past year, Spencer has become ever so much more happy with himself.  It could be the move to homeschooling, more time outside, or any number of other factors in addition to karate.  I don't care.  He recently told me that he is trying to choose to be happy.  I notice that he no longer looks away when unfamiliar people (read: not immediate family) speak to him.  He looks people in the eye and responds to their questions.  He holds the microphone and speaks in front of our church congregation when asked.  He tries to handle his frustrations in more productive ways: taking breaks to play outside instead of crying.  He spends a lot of time reading Calvin & Hobbes books and creating his own jokes.  Although Spencer still struggles from time to time with overwhelming emotions and a bit of grumpiness, he is a different boy than he was a year and a half ago.  He told me that he thought he might be a good karate teacher.  

Last Sunday in church, Spencer made a card for me.  The first line is the first time I've ever known him to say these words:



I am one happy Momma.



The Patience of the Heron

Yesterday my dog and I went to the woods and ran eleven miles on a gorgeous trail of damp fallen leaves, twisted roots, and rocks.  We ran from morning until nearly noon, and watched pale grey skies turn blue and temperatures rise until sweat began to trickle down my body in a steady stream. 

              During the run, we passed the big blue heron who lives at the lake.  She has two favorite rocks upon which she stands for hours, and we usually see her fly from one rock to the other in order to get away from us as we pass. 

It was my great pleasure to see that yesterday she stood her ground.  She eyed us with her round eye as we passed nearby; but did not take to the air.  It was a joy to run so near to her: the long neck fully extended, her blue grey feathers sleek and lovely.  Her still presence suggested a willingness to be patient and observe me before taking flight.

This afternoon, in the wake of a frustrating morning in court, I began thinking about the heron and its patient pose at the lake.

I am a woman who likes to get things done.  After a full morning at court followed by a trip to another court to take care of a few warrants, I came home to find the boys had done no homeschool in my absence.  The only accomplishment seemed to be a new level reached on the Wii game.  My husband had just gotten up and was having coffee.  The house was a mess.  The boys were still in their pajamas.  It was 2pm.

I could have started shouting orders.  That's what I've done in the past.  Shouting usually results in some minimum accomplishments by the boys and a whole lot of crying, frustration, and bad feelings all around.  The beauty of having run eleven miles the day before was that I was too tired to shout.  Instead, I observed. 

Walking through the house, I saw something I usually overlook. . . the boys were happy.  They were cringing a bit because they had been caught goofing off; but I could see they'd had a nice morning.  They had managed to take care of one another and let their father-- who had been working all night-- sleep through the morning.

Realizing the momentous effort that would be involved in getting everyone back on "schedule," I knew I wasn't up to it.  "How about we take a break today?" I asked.  Their faces beamed.  After the horrible fights I had mediated all morning in court, happiness and family peace seemed far more important than insisting on planned math and Latin lessons.

Like the heron on her rock, throughout the afternoon I simply watched . . . my children.  Spencer played outside for an hour.  John Robert did a load of laundry.  They all helped their Dad in the yard.  Later, John Robert began reading a book on the green couch.  Spencer came in and sat in a nearby chair and began reading about the Civil War.  Denver sat on the floor near them both and began to "read" some books of his own.  After a while, I made a buffet of snacks on the kitchen island and invited everyone to eat.  The boys sat on the kitchen island and ate and talked.  There were no complaints.  It was peaceful.  John Robert invited me to a game of chess, and told me all about a science show he'd been watching.  Denver invented some new rules for chess, and we played a game by his new rules.  My husband went to work out.  I read books to Denver until I was too tired to keep going.  Spencer went to karate.

Was this a "wasted" day?  I don't think so.  With the image of the heron in my mind, I realized that patience-- and a willingness to simply observe before judging-- can turn a rough day into a beautiful one.     

 

A Peek at my Big Fantasy

Lately, I've been having fantasies.  I am sweating, my heart is pounding.  I am hot, dirty, and in a hurry.  I am running a marathon trail race.  What did you think I was dreaming about?

When I was 24, I took up running as a way to lose weight.  Ten years, three marathons, and one ultra marathon later, I was sidelined by continual injuries.  Ten years have passed in which I rarely ran.  I mostly took brisk walks, went on hikes, and did yoga. 

At age 44, my body is now telling me it is ready to get back in the race.  Yesterday, I ran nine miles on hilly, rocky, root woven trails.  I LOVED it.  I am not very sore today.  Could it be that I am not too old to run?

I recently read about a man who took up running at age 70.  He was recovering from cancer at the time.  Twenty years have passed, and he is still running marathons. 

Why not me?

 

My Pencie Noo Noo

This morning before daylight I got a special treat.  I'm not talking about the migraine headache that began at 2am and persisted until well after five ibuprofen and sunrise.  No.  After being awake most of the night, I had given up on sleep, and I was shopping online for new running clothes-- did you know they make really cute running skirts now?  No matter.  Near dawn, I heard footsteps on the stairs, and I assumed it was Denver.  I left the office to check.

There on the stairs was my nine and a half year old Spencer.  "I had a really bad dream," he said.  I put down my coffee cup and led him to the living room.  After turning on the fireplace, we sat in the rocking chair with a sleeping bag around us.  He didn't want to talk about his dream.  So I just began to rock him.  We hadn't done that for . . . how long?  Months?  A year?

As we sat in the dark, cozy comfort of the living room, I began to sing to him.  I remembered a favorite song from his infancy.  I thought he was asleep.  I sang it anyway.  Afterward, he hugged me tightly.  My Pencie Noo Noo.  Almost too big for my lap; but if we wiggle and turn just right, he still fits.  Ahhh....and my headache is going away. 

Spencer plays with magnets at the Tellus Museum.

36 Hours of Adventure

On Monday, we left for a little adventure.  We drove to Red Top Mountain in the North Georgia Mountains and took a wonderful hike around Lake Allatoona.  Throw in a few candy bars and juiceboxes, and you've got a great day!  We had never been there, and the boys had a nice time running on the wide trails and seeing the remains of a fireplace from one of the first white settlers.  It was a perfect way to stretch our legs after a couple of hours in the car.  The weather was perfect!  

After several miles of trail hiking, we left for nearby Cartersville, and our free stay at the Hilton Hotel (thanks to John's accumulated travel points!).  I enjoyed doing yoga at the fitness center while the boys enjoyed swimming in the heated pool, which was half indoor and half outdoor!  We ate at Chili's restaurant-- which was a big hit for the boys.  Poor John had forgotten how different it is to travel with three boys and a wife after doing so much travel for work.  We are a traveling circus!

On Tuesday, we went to the Tellus Science Center.  The boys had been there once with Mimi and Paw Paw, but John and I had never seen it.  The boys loved it.  John enjoyed the exhibits related to flight and space best.  The boys seemed to love it all, and I am so grateful we could take them and allow them to take several hours to see everything from dinosaur fossils to rocket replicas to minerals and panning for gems.  It was a sharp contrast to the other school groups being herded from one place to the next with no opportunity to linger or ask questions.



John and the boys talked about the Wright brothers.

  

The boys dig for fossils and find some they can keep-- shark's teeth, sea urchins, etc.



Denver and Daddy work a crane.







 





After a full morning of experimenting with sound waves, admiring huge megalodon jaws, and other interesting things that we don't often see, we reluctantly left the Tellus Museum.  After a stop at Cracker Barrel-- where Denver entertained everyone in the building with a child-sized accordian that he would NOT stop playing!!!-- we mosied home to unpack and get comfy.  Spencer said he was ready to get home.  I agreed.  It was hard to believe we'd only been gone 36 hours! 

 





The Boys admire the Periodic Table of Elements
displaying examples of REAL elements.

Oops! You mean I'm not perfect?

Today was a perfect day.
The boys had a friend over.  They played all afternoon-- mostly nerf guns and mostly outside.  It was lovely to hear their shouts and laughter and not a moment of anger between them.  They even included Denver in their games, which made him ecstatic.  I made cookies and set out pizza and clementines and cherries and juiceboxes and milk and stayed out of the way until it was time to take their friend home.  A few hours later, the boys went to their Mimi's house while John and I went on a date.  It was a perfect Saturday. 

While listening to the boys as they played outside this afternoon, I spent time  reading a marvelous book entitled "Raising our Children, Raising Ourselves" by Naomi Aldort.  It is a powerful book offering concrete ways to be a more attentive, loving, effective parent.  In reading it, I realized (yet again!) that I am far from a perfect parent. 

Thanks to Ms. Aldort, I found a major change I can make in living with my children.  I wonder if it rings true for other parents out there: 

It is embarrassing to admit, but sometimes my frustration with the boys arises out of a fear that their failures mean I am failing as a parent.  For instance, if Spencer is "behind" in math (he hasn't yet memorized his multiplication tables, for instance), it feels like I have failed as a parent and teacher.  Likewise, if Denver is whizzing through a first grade curriculum as a kindergartener, it feels like my success as a parent and teacher.  But that conclusion is untrue and unfair.

A child's development and learning belongs to him, and although we parents can support and encourage, we really can't (or shouldn't) take either the credit for successes or the blame for failures.  This kind of thinking is unfair to my children and extremely unhealthy for our relationship.  My children should be free to experience their lives without my value as a parent being attached to their choices.  Other people might judge me that way, but I have the responsibility to my children not to judge myself in that way.  I love my children.  I want to support and nurture them.  They should get full credit for their successes and full support during times of struggle.

I learned something new today.  It might help me be a better mom. I am not perfect, but it has been a perfect day.