the Mother Runner

It’s been nearly 2 months since I started writing for Babble. It’s been kind of a crazy two months, with illness, marathon training, marathon running, trips to Indiana and Boston, all in addition to “normal life.” I’ve managed to stay on top of the writing pretty well and not mess up my run-in-the-morning-be-with-the-kids-all-day-write-at-night schedule. But it’s been a little tight. There have been some late nights. And some last minute cramming. Maybe a few tears. Still, I’ve done it and I think I could continue on like this for a while if I wanted to.

However, I don’t really want to. Not only is it a really tough schedule for me to keep, it’s redundant. For the past 2+ years I’ve been writing MotherRunner, I’ve been working on getting something relevant/inspiring/helpful/interesting/relatable/publishable up 5 days a week. I’ve gotten comfortable with that (even if the only marker I really hit was “publishable” – and only because I pushed the “publish” button), but that is basically the same thing I am doing for Babble. So why should I do it for MotherRunner, too? Especially when my goals have always been a little bit different from that?

Last night Micah and I had a long talk about this and other issues of time management and organization in our lives. We came to the conclusion, among other things, that it’s time to move forward with MotherRunner. It’s time for me to take another step in the direction of becoming the writer I really want to be. And that means the 5-posts-a-week model is outdated.

Instead, starting next week, I will be posting a minimum of 3 times a week on MotherRunner. There will be a training post: what I’m doing with my running/yoga/strength training/racing. There will be the weekly retrospective with links to my Babble posts and a glimpse into our life and how we live it. And there will be, I hope, a longer, more thought-out and developed essay-ish post. Because that is where I have always wanted to take my writing in the long run.

There may be another short post or two as well, if I have something I really want to share. Or if I have reader suggestions or questions. Or if I just want to.

Now, I’m a little bit nervous about this, a little scared to get out of my comfort zone, and slightly terrified that this whole “longer, more thought-out and developed essay-ish post” is going to fall on its face (or my face, as the case may be) and I’m going to revert back to my comfortable ways. So I’m hoping you’ll stick with me and help me out as I take a step into the darkness. And I hope you’ll find it to be a worthwhile effort, on both our parts.

ps I welcome any feedback. Posts you like? Posts you hate? Suggestions for what to write about, confirmation that I’m not just talking to myself – you know, whatever. Thanks!

Quickquickquickquick s-l-o-w. Quickquickquickquick s-l-o-w. That is the rhythm of life. Rush rush rush rush until you are there and  . . . then what? You are there. Was it worth the rush? Is it everything you imagined? Or are you looking around, trying to find some other place to go, some place else to rush off to?

Or maybe it is simply hurry up so you can get there and have a moment or two to catch your breath, slow down, take things in, and evaluate. Adjust. Plan. Prepare. Try to get back on track. Not “hurry up and wait.” More like “hurry up and rest.”

After last week, with all of the drama that sometimes felt like nothing and sometimes felt so important, with missed deadlines and last minute saves, we hoped this week would be a chance to sit back a little, get back on track, see what we have to work with again.

And it has been that kind of week. Thankfully. It has been the best kind of “waiting,” the kind where we are able to, finally, take those bags of clothes to the donation center. And sit on the couch and read. We’ve had a chance to play games and tell stories. We’ve caught our breath and been able to scan the horizon a little bit. Plan our next move. Enjoy the view. Hurry up . . . and rest.

While you are enjoying the view this weekend, take a minute to peruse my Babble-ings:

It’s about time to get the kids out running. Just be sure to do it age-appropriately.

The secret to keeping up a fitness regimen: finding a million motives to keep at it.

We all have foods we think we’re addicted to, but the jury is still out on if that’s even possible.

I eat like a flexitarian, even if I don’t call myself one.

And I’m officially blaming/creditingmy sister for those warts I had as a kid.

The Little Miss turned 9 months yesterday and is growing up so fast. Just like every child. She stands! Unassisted! For several seconds at a time! This is a development I never would have guessed from this little being who is so quiet and content and unassuming most of the time.

She reminds me of Manchild in a lot of ways. She just looks like she is trying to figure things out. Like she’s taking everything in and in a few months she’s going to surprise us (yet again) with how much she’s already ingested.

And she reminds me of Squish too. She seems very confident and in control of her body. At the dinner table we call her Elastigirl because of her amazing ability to grab whatever she wants, no matter how far it is away from her on the table.

But she is her own person, and she is one that, more than her predecessors, seems to need me. She needs to see me and hear me and touch me and pinch me. And perhaps it is because of this that I feel with her, more than with her predecessors, the need to be someone worth needing.

Or maybe it is just because she is a girl and I feel more strongly that I am a role model for her of what girls are and should be. Perhaps I assumed, subconsciously, that my boys would naturally identify with their dad and, because he is such a stellar specimen of a human being already – kind, thoughtful, generous, chivalrous, humble, selfless, and so on – that they would be fine. They would grow up to be similarly stellar human beings as well. Now, while it’s true that they are with me most of the time, and it’s true that I try very hard to be patient and loving with them, that I try to give them my time and attention as much as they need it, and that I try to involve them and teach them as much as I can, it is also true that actually being someone they would like to emulate has not been one of my conscious intentions.

It is now. Now that I have a daughter. And it makes me think about what I do and who I am in a way that I haven’t in a long time. I think about how I dress and whether or not I do my hair. I think about the way I prepare food and how I sit and talk at the dinner table. I think about how I carry myself and how I touch my body. I think about how I talk about people when they aren’t there. I think about how I talk to people when they are there. I think about how I spend my time – not in the sense of doing things I should or shouldn’t be doing, but in the sense of how my daughter will remember me spending my time, if she were to look back.

I have no delusions that she will choose to follow the path that I have taken, or that she will even want to be like me. She is her own person, after all, and her life could be very different from mine. But I appreciate that I get to have this experience because of her. I appreciate the opportunity to think about what kind of woman I would want my daughter to be and to try to be that woman. It’s very different from thinking about what kind of mom I want to be. And I like it. I like being able to see myself as a person, as a woman, again, and not just as a mom.

It’s different and it’s good.

I finished reading 1776 today. The whole time I could not believe that this little ragtag army of farmers and merchants, who were out-trained, out-numbered, out-paid, and out-clothed (not to mention out-weaponed) somehow managed beat the British. It turns out that 1776 was not a good year for the Continental Army.

From my perspective nearly 2 1/2 centuries later, I thought 1776 was a year of glory, the year our country was born. I thought it was full of the fire of independence, of certainty and action.

But it wasn’t until the final paragraphs that David McCullough tells us what 1776 really was:

“The year 1776, celebrated as the birth year of the nation and for the signing of the Declaration of Independence, was for those who carried the fight for independence forward a year of all-too-few victories, of sustained suffering, disease, hunger, desertion, cowardice, disillusionment, defeat, terrible discouragement, and fear, as they would never forget, but also of phenomenal courage and bedrock devotion to country, and that, too, they would never forget.

Especially for those who had been with Washington and who knew what a close call it was at the beginning – how often circumstance, storms, contrary winds, the oddities or strengths of individual character had made the difference – the outcome seemed little short of a miracle.”

It was and is a miracle. And it is reassuring to me to know that despite that awfulness of that year, all that uncertainty and indecision and bad luck and inexperience, Washington and his army persevered. They learned from their mistakes and moved forward, stronger and more capable.

That first year is never easy, I guess, whether it is the first year of marriage, or parenthood, or being a new country. It’s hard. And often seems foolhardy. But it’s also where the devotion and dedication and future successes are forged and sealed. The events themselves may be nothing to get excited about, but what grows out of them can be the stuff of legends.

Take that to heart.

I’m going to resume my posts about training eventually. But it will probably be about the same time I start . . . training again. I’m still taking some time off for the sake of my knee. I hope by next week I’ll be up and at ‘em again.

Kids need limits. At least that is what I’ve been told. But it’s kind of hard to know where to put those limits, and when. It’s like filling up a bike tire only to find that it’s full of holes, or that there are tiny cracks in the bucket where the water keeps running out.

Several times in the past few months we’ve found that where we thought we running a tight ship, we did, in fact, have gaping holes. These holes allowed for much too much wandering off, which, in turn, led to a certain 6-year-old taking things to extremes and being a drain on our emotional resources.

An example: the boys like to play on the iPad. We feel like this is mostly harmless as long as we only allow them a certain amount of time each day and we are privy to which games they are playing. When we decided that they would have to earn that time by making their beds, putting dishes in the sink, completing their “homework,” putting their clothes away, and so forth, we thought we’d set up a good system.

But we hadn’t. Manchild, bless his little homeschooled heart, would do anything and everything he could to earn minutes. He made his bed. He made his brother’s bed. His sister’s, too. And then he’d top it off by making our bed. He’d have his homework done by the time we woke up in the morning. He was constantly asking for more and more jobs.

That wasn’t the bad part. I mean, way to go, Manchild! He was a great help. Kept my apartment clean when I had no time to do it myself. But still, it got out of hand. He talked incessantly about his games. I would politely (I thought) remind him that not everyone knows what he’s talking about and sometimes it is annoying to have to listen to things that don’t make sense. He didn’t like me telling him that. And he kept right on talking. Then we had a series of days in which we had too much to do and iPad time didn’t happen. He really didn’t like that. Which is when we decided that we clearly missed the gaping holes in our plan. His entire day, his entire life, his entire mind revolved around iPad time. Not cool. So we’ve taken the rest of the month off and we’ll rebuild from there.

Another example: we don’t have dessert every night. We just don’t. And most of the time when we do, it is something small like a piece of chocolate. Perhaps because we would just offer something small like that, we may have lost track of how often we were letting the boys have dessert. The past few days as we’ve been trying to de-tox from our Boston/birthday treatfest, Manchild has been adamant that he needs dessert. And if we don’t give it to him now he’ll get two tomorrow. (His standard threat.)

He moaned and groaned to me about this nearly the entire mile-long walk home from a friend’s house the other day, and by the time we got walked in the door I realized we’d done it all wrong and I meant to set it right: we would have dessert twice a week: Monday as part of Family Home Evening and Friday as an end-of-week celebration. The end.

It sure is fun to find out where the holes are by putting water in the bucket. Kind of wish we could have patched it all up good and tight in the first place.

Manchild turned 6 last week. Six seems so much older than 5. Almost a big kid. Almost ready to do big kid things. Or maybe he is ready. We’ve decided to find out. I asked him a while ago if he was interested in going running with me in the mornings and he was enthusiastic about the idea. We won’t go far, of course. Not in the first few weeks. I figure if we make a couple of times around the block, we’re doing well. But he is taking a broad view and hoping we’ll be running to the park with his siblings in the stroller before too long. I hope he’s right.

But if he’s going to be right, he should probably have some special gear. That’s half the fun, right? Special shoes, special clothes for your special sport? So I picked up a pair of shoes and some “running” clothes for the boy for his birthday. I’m not banking on him being Dash Parr or anything, but I’m hoping running becomes something he enjoys. And if he doesn’t, well, the shoes look cool anyway.

He’s also been pestering Micah to teach him about belaying. I don’t remember how rock climbing came up, but there it was and Manchild needed to know more. As he always does. Micah got home from work today and rigged up a climbing wall in the boys’ bedroom.

I know it’s just a taste, just a hint of what may be coming in the next few years, but it’s exciting. I feel like we’re moving into a new realm of parenthood, where our kids aren’t too young or too small to do a lot of the activities we love. It’s about time we started indoctrinating them in the Heiselt ways. It’s about time we initiated them.

Welcome to the family, kids. This is what we do.

I was doing fine with all of this marathon bombing craziness until today. Now that I am farther away and can’t see that for the most part it is business as usual. It was interesting being on the other side of the equation, being “there” where all the action was, and seeing that, for the most part, it wasn’t a big deal. Yes, there were SWAT vans and armed guards parked outside out hotel. We had to show our ID and hotel room key to go pass them. But most of Boston on Tuesday was up and running as usual. We walked to Bunker Hill. We met friends for lunch. We visited the ducklings. We were only briefly freaked out when 1. a lady on a street we were going down was walking the other way, crying, and telling us how they were closing the street and 2. when somebody left a backpack on a bench near the ducklings and someone asked, “Whose backpack is that?” and it took a minute or two for the owner to realize that his bag was causing a lot of anxiety.

But today I, like the rest of the country, was fixated on the images and descriptions of all the drama that went on last night and the hunt that just ended a few hours ago. The anxiety of the unknown and the fear for my friends that live there was a lot more difficult to deal with than SWAT vans outside the hotel – even though I knew that my friends were probably sitting at home, embarrassed that there was so much concern on their behalf when they’re just chillin’ and making brownies to pass the time.

I am so grateful that they found the guy. So grateful for the brave man who investigated his bloody boat and the brave officers who spent this week tirelessly pursuing the bombers. I still feel a little bit weird about having been a part of this, about people worrying for my family, about knowing that there actually was cause for concern. But I also feel a greater kinship with my fellow runners, and greater support from those who aren’t so much runners . . . yet.

And while I’ve been wiling away the minutes waiting for this guy to get caught (and letting my children test their acrobatic skills on our couch), I caught up on my Babble postings for the week:

My gut reaction to the marathon bombing. Not my best moment.

Small people should eat off of small plates.

After a week like this, I think we could all use a night out with friends.

And one way to keep your kids from developing allergies may be to feed them fish.

I started thinking about what I wanted to do after Boston months ago. Training was going so well and I was having such a good time that I decided I might as well take advantage of the fact that I’m not pregnant and train for as many races as possible. So I signed up for a half marathon in Utah so I’ll have something to do when I’m visiting my family in June. Oh, that and the fact that we’ve participated the past two years and several other members of my family are running the marathon or half marathon, so it seemed like a good thing to be a part of. It’s tradition!

But aside from training for that and various other races, I have a couple of other things I want to do, too. Like stop being so selfish. Micah has been really great about doing whatever he needs to do – and I need him to do – so that I could train and qualify for Boston, so that I could run while I was pregnant, so that I could train and run Boston. And he’s been nursing some injuries for a long time now. I think it’s time to focus on getting him better so that he can chase his dreams too, and not just hold my horses for me.

And then there is the Manchild. He did such a stellar job at the Mile for Midwives 5K last year, but he was right in that I neglected to train him properly. I’m hoping to do a better job this year. I’m also hoping to take advantage of some morning-run time to take him out one-on-one for a quick lap or two around the block. Over time I hope we can do a couple of miles together. He’s looking forward to running together while I push his little siblings in the stroller, but I think that might be a little ways off. For now I think it will be good for us to run and talk and see if he likes this kind of thing as much has his parents do.

But for the next week or so, I’ll be resting and rollingmy legs and trying to get that IT band back to normal. And counting my blessings that I have a family who has been so supportive as I’ve run after my dreams. Time to return the favor.

I’ve heard it said that you never get over the fear of the marathon. No matter how many times you’ve done it, 26.2 miles is a long way and no matter how well-prepared you are, there is plenty of time and space for unpredictability. And also, it hurts. Most marathon runners I know have had bad races, and as race day approaches, you always wonder if this race might turn out to be another one. (All this has nothing to do with random acts of violence.) This is especially easy to dwell on in the weeks of tapering when you are running less and the memories of your good, strong runs are farther away in your mind. Combine that with arriving at your race destination and seeing nothing but extremely fast looking people and you have a recipe for “What On Earth Am I Doing Here” Syndrome (which I just made up). Honestly, seeing all these human whippets walking around was a little intimidating.

I was pretty indecisive and vague about my goals leading up to the race. There was a part of me that simply wanted to avoid disaster. Just please let me finish the race, I prayed. There was another part that thought maybe I had it in me to PR. I went back and forth on my training: It had gone much better than expected, but then my expectations had been really low. I had killed it in February, but March had nearly decimated me. I should be happy just to be there, but I wouldn’t be happy knowing I hadn’t given it my best.

The morning of the race I woke up plenty early to give myself enough time to eat, drink, dress, nurse my baby, take pictures, etc. and everything had gone smoothly – until I got to the buses and realized I’d left my bagel at the hotel. And suddenly I was worried that I would be hungry and cranky halfway through the race. But once I was on the bus, I settled down my seat and, after a while, started chatting with my seatmate and her two friends who were sitting behind us. This was her 4th Boston marathon, and she knew her stuff. Like how they have bagels at the athlete’s village before the start. (Phew! My little rookie self breathed a sigh of relief.) And how even though it is pretty much downhill after Heartbreak Hill at mile 21, it’s still going to hurt and you shouldn’t plan on things being easy. Have fun. Enjoy the experience, the crowds, the course, she counseled.

And after we parted ways, that is exactly what I decided to do. I didn’t wear the pace bands that would tell me how many minutes I should be running each mile if I wanted to make a certain time. I didn’t listen to music, and I tried not to pay too much attention to my Nike+ app telling me my pace. I decided I wanted to run a pretty consistent pace and to have a good time. I didn’t want to be too worried about the clock; I would listen to my body and run by feel instead. I hoped that by the end, no matter what my time, I would feel like I had run a smart race, that I had enjoyed it, and that I had given it my all. I wanted to be sore in the best way the next day. And that is what I did.

I started off a little slow, hoping to avoid burnout near the end. But by mile 3 I was feeling my knee (IT band syndrome) and started to be a little concerned that it would give me trouble. Thankfully, I’d read some things and talked to some people about staying positive, so rather than focusing on how my knee hurt and how it was going to ruin everything, I reminded myself that it would only hurt if I stopped. I told it that I was proud of it. I noticed that my stomach was feeling great with my fueling/hydration plan (a Gu every 6 or so miles, a swallow or two of water every 2-3 miles) and thought about how I’d be fine as long as my stomach didn’t rebel.

In the other marathons I’ve run, most of the spectators have been near the end, but each little town on the way to Boston was out en force to cheer on the runners. I was really touched at how many people were handing out orange wedges, or had set up their own water stations. And, with my name written across my chest, I found out that I had a lot of friends in Massachusetts (much to the annoyance of many of my fellow-runners, I fear). It was such a boost to hear people call my name and tell me that I was looking great, that I was strong, that I could do this. As I neared the scream tunnel of Wellesley College, where all the girls are begging for kisses, I was both near tears and laughter at their enthusiasm. I can’t imagine what kind of endurance they must have to keep that up until the end of the race.

Micah and Abby had planned to take the kids on the train and find a place near mile 18 to watch for me, and I spent a lot of the race counting down the miles until I saw them. When I got to mile 18, I scanned both sides of the road hoping to see them. I was nearly to mile 20 and had thought I’d missed them entirely when I saw them off to the right and veered off the road to give them all hugs and kisses before running on. It was perfect timing. I was so happy to have caught them, and so happy to be that much closer to the end, that I didn’t even notice Heartbreak Hill until I was nearly over it. In fact, I saw a man with a sign proclaiming that Heartbreak Hill ended right there and was so surprised that I asked a guy running next to me if it could possibly be true. It was. My 3-day carb-load must have paid off because I didn’t feel like I hit any wall anywhere. And from then on, I tried to push myself and not hold back. My knee had quieted down a bit by then, but my calves and quads were burning,and my feet were . . . tired. “Ride the crowd,” I told myself. “Let them carry you.” And I did and they did. So many people yelling my name, so many people telling me I could do it. I believed them, and I counted down the final miles: 22 . . . 23 . . . 24 . . . 25 . . . One mile to go! Right on Hereford Street, left on Boylston, and there was the finish line. So close!

I wanted to take a picture of the line, or a video of me approaching it, but just as I passed the 26 mile mark and I pulled out my phone, the battery died and there was nothing I could do about it. I crossed the line, slowed down, got some water, some Gatorade, a banana, a heat blanket. My feet hurt, but I didn’t have any blisters. My body ached, but I didn’t feel sick. The clock had said 3:26:59 when I crossed the line, but I knew I hadn’t crossed the start line for at least a minute after the starting gun fired. It was definitely not a PR, but it was a solid race – everything I could have hoped for. I’d pushed myself, I’d stayed positive, I’d run a more consistent pace than I had before, and – most importantly – I’d had fun. I’d enjoyed myself, soaked in the atmosphere, avoided heartbreak on the hills, and let the crowd carry me home.

Thanks so much for all of your concern for me and my family over yesterday’s events. Micah and I spent much of the afternoon responding to texts and e-mails and phone calls and Facebook postings inquiring after our safety and we so much appreciate your thoughts and support.

We are doing well, and despite the presence of heavily armed guards outside our hotel and on many of the street corners in downtown Boston, we went out and enjoyed the beautiful day.

I was hoping to write a more detailed account of the race today, but that will have to wait until tomorrow night when I am home and at my computer instead of writing from my mobile devices. But for now I will say that I feel like I ran a good, solid race. My pace was more consistent than other races I’ve run and I feel like that is progress, even though at 3:25, my finish time was a few minutes off my PR. My knee held up well, although I did feel it nearly the whole race. And the crowds were amazing. I laughed and cried (on the inside) to see all the excitement and support for the runners. Boston is truly a great race to run.

I’ll post more about it tomorrow, but until then, I just want to thank you all again for your thoughts and notes. We truly appreciate them, and you.