Be nice, mommy

Overheard conversation by the under-5 set in my house on a recent morning:

M-man: I am going to be Santa Claus when I grow up.

C-girl: I going to be Daddy!

M-man: No you can't. You're a girl.

C-girl: I a girl!

M-man: You have to be mommy and I will be Santa Claus.

***

Tonight, in the bathtub:

Me: What's that noise?

(Silence, as my kiddies listen to the fan of the bathroom downstairs underneath us running).

C-girl: Daddy farting!
(In his defense, Daddy was not actually making any noise. Mommy, on the other hand, almost fell over, laughing.)

***

M-man is almost finished with his school year at the school he's now been at since January, after the previous  one forcefully orchestrated his exit in part to make room for the board president's daughter in M's old classroom.

Since then, M-man has done really great. He still has his struggles with transitions and how to handle when he is frustrated, but generally we've seen some maturity from him.

At this point, it seems like he will just continuing to be a challenging kid. But he's also so loving and bright and well, we're along for the ride with him. I adore him and his busy, inquisitive little self.

But the last few weeks there have been some worrisome things -- not out of range for a 4-year-old boy but troubling. He was refusing to go to the bathroom and sometimes soiling himself at school -- and he's been fully potty-trained for awhile. There were outbursts.  There were a few calls and emails of concern -- nothing like his last crazy school -- but a few. I began to worry.

And then last week brought a huge outburst that involved him pulling down his pants and peeing in the classroom. My oldest son did this once, as a third-grader, and I know it's a really frustrated and defiant reaction on the part of a kids. But I admit, I was freaked.

Not so much by the actual action. I just worry that he's going to be OK in the future, able to deal with stresses and anger.

So, I called a behavioral therapist, K, with whom we had worked with a little bit when M-man changed school's last winter. She was nice enough to come over tonight to our house.

Of course, since that awful day, which involved another mega-tantrum that night, M-man has had great days at both school and home.

Had I overreacted? K kindly said no.

It is a really warm night here in Chicago. It's just perfect. The kids played in the yard. When I said it was time to eat, M-man balked.

K reminded me to give two prompts and then physically motor him through to what I wanted him to do. He balked and protested. K gently reminded me to ignore the words. He had been sitting in his seat maybe 20 seconds when K suddenly enthusiastically said "I like the way you are sitting in your seat, M-man!"

Over the course of our conversation, during which she gave me lots of tips on how to get him to comply with what we tell him (a big challenge) and how to deal with his tantrums (also a big challenge), I took lots of notes. Which will go on the fridge.

Like training for a marathon, in which you follow a plan, I realized I needed a written guide to my own kid. Personal failing on my part? Maybe, but heck, I'm not breaking any records as a runner, either, but that doesn't mean I don't still work hard at it. Parenting is way more important.

I also realized something else as I sat on my patio in the warm breezes, my kids munching away on a dinner of pizza and grapes (Chef Runlikeamama, that's me).

I don't praise enough.

I mean, I don't praise very many people ever -- my co-workers, my friends, my husband or my kids. I'm not very good at complimenting either.

I'm not sure why I'm wired this way. My world view is that people ought to act a certain way and do certain things. Which kind of makes me an ass.

As I get older, I need praise less and less. Of course I ought to be working my ass off at whatever I'm doing. Why would I need praise when I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing?

But... watching my little guy brighten, just a little, as K praised him for sitting -- just basic sitting, the bare minimum of what he should be doing that minute, gave me pause.

Not to sound all Pollyannish, but yeah, I could stand to praise more. My little guy needs it. And frankly, probably so do other people around me. I'm going to really try.

Running update: I ran last Saturday after a 9-day break suggested by the physical therapist. Unfortunately my aches in my left leg are still there.

But I'm continuing to do my exercises every day. And I'm going to try and run again tomorrow. Oh, and I managed a 9:40 pace for 10.5 miles on Saturday, which makes me happy. :)

Time to behave

After I do a race, particularly when I do well, I kind of, well, swagger a bit.

Just to myself... mostly.

I don't want to be one of those jerks who talks about running and races to folks who don't run or race and who would be bored to death to know my race splits (my pace for each mile) or that time when I had a, uh, mishap and I finished a race with blood smeared on my legs down to my socks. I mean, who would even blog about that????

Anywho, I didn't swagger much this week, even though I kicked some ass. I hobbled. A lot.

My quads screamed at me and I had to go down stairs sideways because it hurt too much to descend normally. My hips ached, my left calf ached. Someone at work asked me, um, are you OK, old lady? (OK, they did not say "old lady.")

My new physical therapist last week said, go ahead and race, but take the following week off. Of course by Thursday of this week I was like, oh, you know, just a little run... a wee five miles...

It didn't hurt but it didn't feel great. When I saw the PT today, my left hip was jacked up again. That seems to be the issue -- weakness in my hips and core, and my hips are no longer level, with my left hip hiked up and my poor leg complaining up a storm. Yes, my elusive, coy core is the problem. I do freaking work on it -- yoga, squats, lunges, etc, but apparently it's never, ever enough.

So now it's time to do the grownup runner thing. Take another week off. And put in the work.

We did a boatload of hip and core strengtheners today that kicked my butt. I've been doing my exercises every day for the last week. I'm going to go back to spinning classes this week, and do other stuff that is non-impact. Boo, I miss running already.

But...

I'm signed up for the Omaha marathon this fall. I want to be strong and healthy and run my ass off there, hills and humidity and all. My eye is on the prize.

***

... Just had to share this great email today I got from a former boss and a good friend. (When I started running a few years back, I told him I wanted to run a marathon when I was 40. He was incredulous, like, why would you wait till then??? Good advice -- don't wait to do stuff. Do it now.)

This was his response to my last blog post about my 2:03 half last weekend but missing my goal of breaking two hours:

"For what it is worth, youngster, my PR in the half marathon is 2:04:33 ... when I was 64... my last half marathon (at) age 66 (was) 2:37:45. Now THAT was a good indication that my PR days are behind me, and that's fine with me.

You, on the other hand, have plenty of races ahead before you look back on your PRs and determine that your personal record runs are behind you."

Yep, time to take the PT and the rest time seriously. I've got work to do, and lots of runs ahead of me. :) Thanks, friend!

Race report: Drake Relays half marathon

I want to be fast. The trick to becoming a faster runner is, well, obvious. Run faster. I figured it was time to stop waiting to get faster -- like I'm waiting for skinny jeans to go away and my beloved boot cut styles to make a comeback -- and get the lead out, as my parents would say (still do not quite understand that phrase).

At 45, I suspect a lot of runners my age might think about this differently. If you e been running for a few decades, your fastest times may be behind you.

But I have less than a decade into running -- nine years since my first race, a 5k, and six years since my first half and full marathons.

So I ran "faster" to get ready for the half I did last weekend, the Drake Relays half marathon in Des Moines. After hitting a 2:04 personal record (PR) in January at F3, I decided to shoot to break two hours for this race.

I ran with friends through a cold spring. My last run before the race was 39 degrees. Start line temp on Sunday? 50 degrees, and sunny with a high forecast for 77 degrees. Gulp. I also just visited the physical therapist for the first time a few days prior to the race for the niggly aches in my calf and the muscular imbalances in my hips. So I figured two hours was a long shot, but what the hell. When in Des Moines...

Two break two hours, you've got to average a 9:09 pace. I lined up behind the pony-tailed pacer carrying the 2-hour pace sign, figuring if I could hang with her I'd be good.

The first three miles of this course are downhill into downtown Des Moines. I ran below 9 minute-miles -- as did said pacer -- and enjoyed the descent. There are hills around mile 5, around the state capital building, and a long climb beginning at mile 10, so I figured I'd just go for it and bank a little extra now to make up for slowing later.

I realized the pacer was going too fast, too, so decided to not make a big issue of hanging with her. I hit the first hill and hoo boy, was I reminded of how nearly all of my runs are on a flat lakefront. I was openly huffing and gasping, but hung in there.

The next few miles got warmer. I kept thinking, don't ease up, because I knew at mile 10 the ascent to the finish line began. As in, three miles of mostly upward climb.

By this time, I felt like total crap. I was overheated. I wanted to quit. I was running behind a blond woman and noticed her wearing a familiar shirt -- the 2010 Lincoln marathon shirt, the only marathon I've DNF'ed at. I told myself I wasn't going to quit this time, no matter how lousy I felt. And oh man, did I feel awful.

Nearing mile 11, I rounded the bend of an intersection, passing the spot where I had my first kiss with my husband. I tried to think warm, fuzzy thoughts, but bleah, let's face it, I was nauseous as hell. Suddenly a big, fat hill was in front of me. I grunted up that hill, and then another, and then another.

By the time I hit the Drake stadium for the final half mile or less, all I could think was finish, finish, finish and do.not.quit. I ran past my husband as I did the final leg on the stadium track, turning as he yelled my name. I hit the finish line, sun beating down, and stopped and got on my knees, dry-heaving. I couldn't believe I was dry-heaving, I never do that. I tried to stand up and I felt wobbly. Suddenly two really nice, sweet race volunteers had me on a chair, pouring water on my head. They then escorted me in the blissfully shaded medical tent, where I drank water and put a bag of ice on my head. They were so nice.

My final time was 2:03:xx, 18th out of 60 in my age group. I know I started off too fast and fell apart later. But I couldn't have raced any harder. I managed to run a minute faster than any other 11 halfs I've run, on a much hillier course in temperatures that were at least 30 degrees warmer than what I ran in in January. I'm happy about that... but I *think* I will stick to racing in the winter.

My splits, according to Nike app:

Mile 1  8:50 Downhill, whee!
Mile 2  8:27 More downhill
Mile 3  8:18 (!!)
Mile 4  8:53
Mile 5  9:01
Mile 6  9:25 OMG. Ungodly hill by the Iowa state capital building
Mile 7  8:58
Mile 8  9:10
Mile 9  9:20
Mile 10  9:29 Start of three mile climb, gradual at first
Mile 11  9:45 Hills, OMG
Mile 12  10:19 DYING
Mile 13  9:32 Where is the effing finish line?

An incredible report from Boston

My friend Jacqueline's story at Boston. I'm still crying.

Running on sad

I confess  to stalking the Boston marathon site at work yesterday. I was monitoring the progress of a friend who was running her first Boston, someone who has been such a great mentor to me back when I got into running a few years ago.

She did great, btw. She is an amazing runner and a tough bird. She overcame injury setbacks and has kids who are two and four, so juggled her running between pregnancies, which is not easy. She is also an amazing writer, so I'll share her blog post when she writes her race story.

And now she will have an even more extraordinary tale to tell after yesterday's bombings at Boston. (She is okay, thank goodness).

Watching the tape we have all now seen of the blast near the finish line, I keep thinking about a couple of things.

I run marathons and so do many of my friends. That feeling of being just seconds away from crossing a finish line is such a blur. I always feel like total crap and all I want is to cross that mother and never run again. I never hear the announcer call my name or notice anything going on around me. My thought watching the blast was how confusing that must have been for the runners -- how would you even process what was going on?

But I really keep thinking about the spectators, which is who got hurt the worst and as we know, even killed. Spectators especially during something as grueling as a marathon are so essential. I don't have to know you. I'm so grateful that you're there.

During my first marathon, Chicago 2007, spectators were the ones who got us water and Gatorade when the marathon ran out on a day that hot to 89 degrees. One of them held a hose for us to run under and drink out of.

At the St Louis marathon the following year, I high-fived little kids all along the route. At Rockford in 2010, a nice lady kindly ran into her house and got me a cup of ice -- I was nauseous and stuffed the ice into my bra and hat, which cooled me off and helped the nausea. Later, at mile 23, a picnicking family let me stick my grubby hand in their cooler full of food and take ice. I'm sure I smelled horrible but they were so nice about it.

The point is obvious -- spectators rock, even when they stand there and yell "you're almost done!" at mile 20 -- when you have six more miles to go and you're hitting the wall and hate everyone and everything.

My favorite is the little kids who hold up signs "Go Mommy!" and "My daddy is a rock star!" along the road. I've always figured I will plant some of those signs in my kids' hands when they get a little bigger.

I ran this morning in the pre-dawn hours with friends, all of us marathoners and some of us parents. The solitude and quietness of the morning, our footfalls and chatter the only noises we could hear, seemed so far away from what happened yesterday. And yet, it's very close.

The runner in me is heartbroken that a peaceful, wholesome event like a marathon -- Boston!! -- could be marred like this. The human in me can't get her head around another horrific tragedy in a country that seems more and more violent. But the mama in me can't bear the idea that a child who was watching for his dad to finish the race was killed. That's where it really hits home.

Letting go of the "woobie"

It's been a cold spring in the Midwest. As in, haven't-put-away-the-running-tights-for-the-season-cold.

The last two weeks also brought the challenge of being patient, choosing rest over running to help my achy left leg rest. I've stretched, foam rolled and amped up work on my core, with the goal of resetting my gait so everything feels okay running.

I'm happy to say on the latter front, the patience paid off. I ran 14 miles on Saturday after taking a second full week off of running -- and had no pain. A few aches and niggles on a blustery morning -- including snow flurries, for Pete's sake -- but no pain! I was giddy. 

Early this morning, two days later, I ran six miles and felt fast and awesome. Hooray!

As for the weather... well, I ran in shorts and a short-sleeve shirt this morning for the first time in months -- and just two days after those snow flurries I mentioned. Another hooray! 

I put away the woobie. Hooray!

My friend Shaun is the one who uses this the term -- he uses it to refer to his warm running clothes, which are hard to put away after a long winter. When you get up obscenely early on a cold morning you just want to bundle yourself as you think about venturing outside and actually running in crappy weather. We've joked about the woobie on several runs lately.

This morning was 61 degrees at the Chicago lakefront. Bye-bye woobie. 

Of course I like to make metaphors out of stuff like this. After I got home this morning and took a deliciously hot shower, I was scrounging in the fridge for leftover scrambled eggs. I came upon a tub of peppermint frosting.

I hate peppermint frosting. I bought it on accident months ago, thinking it was vanilla. Which I love. Yes, I am a vanilla girl. Yum. 

The tub of frosting had been sitting, unopened, in the pantry for ages. Now it will sit in my fridge until I just toss it. I hate to waste it, but, yuck.

On Easter a few weeks ago, M-man and his sister dove into their Easter chocolates like nobody's business. They were wacky on the junk, throwing fits when the hub and I cut them off from chocolate more than once that day. 

At some point that afternoon, M-man had gotten into the pantry, found the frosting and even managed to pull off the foil seal. That is not easy for a four-year-old. 

The hub and I were laughing -- but a little nervous -- at our little sugar monkey. My fault -- mommy has a terrible sweet tooth. But I always hide my-dip-the-spoon-in-the-tub-of-frosting habit -- so how did he know to find the frosting and rip it open?

Yesterday I took M-man to his swimming lessons. He did great, wearing his little goggles and acting like a total squirrel. As I was toweling him off in the locker room afterward, he noticed I was wearing a race shirt. He asked me if I ran a race while he was swimming. (I think it's adorable that anytime he notices me in running clothes, he always thinks I'm running a race.) I told him no, honey, remember I watched your swimming lesson and we wave to each other? 

He paused and said, well, is your shirt stinky? LOL. Guess he's gotten a lot of post-run hugs from his stinky mama.

So as I looked at the frosting today I thought the "woobie" -- and how we all have woobies that make us feel good, that comfort us. 

I also thought of how much our kids are studying us, taking notes constantly of things we don't even realize they're noticing. My son notices eating habits, and he notices exercise habits. And if I really think about it, it's a pretty incredible honor to be such an influence on someone's life -- as grownups who are around kids are. I've been a mom for 20 years and I forget that a lot.

So, for me, maybe I'll put away my "woobie" -- make sure I'm not sending the wrong signal on junk food. 

Though nothing too crazy, of course. I have an unopened tub of chocolate frosting in the pantry -- on a very high shelf. 

Get out of car! and other running mama tales

I kind of wish I had a recorder that was always running. I'd set it up in my house and never miss some of the cute things my kids say, as 4 and 2-year-olds do.

In the car, on the way to daycare and preschool dropoff:

C-girl: Bebe?
Me, driviing: Uh oh, did Daddy forget to give you your car binky?
C-girl: Bebe?
Me: Sorry, sweetie. I can't get it now, I'm driving the car.
M-man: Mommy, if you smash your car the buildings will fall down! (M-man loves to say stuff like this)
C-girl: Bebe?
Me: Um, right, buddy. C-girl, I'm sorry, I can't get it right now. Silly Daddy!
C-girl: Bebe?
C-girl: Bebe?
C-girl: Bebe?
C-girl: Bebe?
Me: Let's sing a song?
C-girl. growing louder: Bebe!
Me: I can't get it now because mommy has to drive the car! We're almost to school. You're going to make it, C-girl.
C-girl: Get out of car!

***
At bathtime, both kids in the tub:

M-man farts in the tub: (Giggle)
C-girl: Mahee farr-ed! (Giggle)
M-man: We don't poop in the tub.
C-girl: Poop in the tub!
M-man: No, C-girl, we DON'T poop in the tub!
C-girl, grinning: Poop in the tub!
M-man, getting mad: NO we DON'T poop in the tub!
C-girl: Poop in the tub!!
Me, growing slightly alarmed, though I'm *pretty* sure she's kidding: C-girl, do you have to poop? We don't poop in the tub!
C-girl smiles at me, rather devilishly. (She did not, thank goodness).

***
(This is a conversation I missed, sadly, so it's paraphrased from what Daddy told me. C-girl is having a fit about something)

M-man: What's wrong with her?
Daddy says whatever he says.
M-man: C-girl, here's the Happy book and the Angry book (I wish I could find links for these books, my kids love them and they are awesome). Now you can go cool down.

I could just eat them up, every day.

Running report:

Last week I took a break from running, nervous about twinges in my left ankle and calf following a long run about a week and a half ago. I did a long run, 10 miles, this last Saturday to see if rest did the trick.

The first couple of miles were great, no problem. As we ran across the North Avenue bridge, I felt a quick, sharp pain on the top of my left foot that made me yelp. As we continued south past Navy Pier, my calf began growling and joining the ankle -- no outright pain, thank goodness, but not how things should feel.

After our turnaround at the five-mile point things were aching pretty good and I was feeling pretty discouraged. Rats. Was I going to have to quit running for longer this time? Go to physical therapy? None of that was appealing.

The last couple of miles my IT band was growling but strangely, some of the noise in the lower part of my leg quieted down. Odd, but I took it as a good sign. Maybe my gait has just been thrown off by some tightness in my hips.

For a lot of runners, me included, tight IT bands usually are the culprit. Tightness in the IT bands manifest themselves as knee pain, or ankle pain. For me, it's because I'm not stretching enough and maybe I'm slacking on my yoga (which isn't the case this time around). I have been foam rolling every day in the last week or two to loosen them up as well.

It can also signal some weakness in the core that's putting extra pressure on other parts of the lower body. Physical therapists, massage therapists, etc usually have the same advice: strengthen your core. Which drives me nuts because I do work on my core! (Somewhere my friend Shaun is reading this and laughing. It's the kind of thing I rant about on our runs sometimes. Yes, I am a joy to run with.) Maybe I don't do a *lot* of core work, but I do *some* - mommy's post-winter muffin-top aside. *whistle*

Since I am a smart runner mom and know all this, I didn't wait for this advice and just figured I'll just solve my problem myself! Feeling pleased with myself about my self-diagnosis, during my week off from running I threw myself into core and strength work for the whole body, everything from one-legged squats to pushups and even more yoga. It felt really good, hard but good.

I also got a brutal massage a few days ago that worked out some kinks. I'm still whimpering.

Monday was a tough day at work. I didn't get home until about 20 minutes before the kids were supposed to go to bed. I always feel guilty that the hub is doing all the heavy-lifting in the evenings, plus I'm so excited to see the kids by the time I get home, so I usually just throw my coat off and throw myself into bath/PJs/playtime.

I was squatting down next to M-man in his room, playing something. I stood up suddenly and felt in my right hip something like a charley horse. Holy crap it hurt, bad. I thought it was just a muscle cramp deep in the hip.

Yesterday it hurt to walk -- the muscle/muscles deep around the hip socket into my upper hip ached. Going up stairs was brutal. Yes, I think I pulled a butt muscle. Yay. What in the heck?

Good news is today it feels better. I will be running again by the end of the week. There's running injuries and then there's mama injuries. The half marathon is two weeks from Sunday -- hopefully I can avoid all of them between now and then!