I'm a Runner

When our monthly "Runner's World" magazine arrives, I eagerly turn to my favorite section, "I'm a Runner."  It's a one-page "soft" piece that features famous or notable people and what drives them to run.  Some admit to running to stay fit, others say it's to keep their sanity, but the majority, artists and creative types included, have no real answer.  It's just something that they do.  A part of their day that they simply can't skip.

I run for a different reason each time.  Some days it's what my training plan calls for.  Other days it's because the weather is beautiful and surely God would want me to take advantage of fresh air and sunshine.  Sometimes, there's no "reason" at all.  I just lace up my sneakers, blast my Top 40 pop music and set out.  Those are the best days.  I've never regretted a run.  I always regret not running.

I used to consider myself a jogger.  I'm not sure what warrants the label of "runner" but I've been doing it consistently and long enough now that I think I've earned the promotion.  I've raced countless 5k and 10k races, 11 half marathons and more training runs than I can count.  Like life, it's a process.  Some days are a cake walk, others are literally an uphill climb.

For a runner, the finish line of a big race is true exaltation.  Even if you've raced poorly, it is still an incredible feeling to know what your body has accomplished.  Your muscles pushed harder than you thought possible and propelled you forward footstep by footstep.  You had the mental fortitude to stick with it to the very end.  I don't race to win or to receive a medal.  I race for that feeling of connecting with my own power.  It's exhilarating.

I've also been that spectator at the finish line, cheering on a loved one, rooting them to finish strong.  I've made posters to silently chant, "You can do this!" To be in the crowd of well wishers is a feeling of community, of mutually outpouring support and love to those who have endured training and competition. Sometimes the best part is cheering on a complete stranger who looks like they need a little push to make it.

Having experienced all of this first hand is why the bombings at the Boston Marathon are so personal to me. I am that runner who was knocked off their feet by the explosion.  I am that runner who veered off course to take refuge in a store.  I am that spectator who stopped mid-chant to take cover.  I am that family member who couldn't get cell service to find out if my loved one was okay on the race course. I'm a runner and that was me.

How dare these people take something so innocent as a test of athleticism and fortitude and make it a display of hatred.  How dare they take the joy out of something so pure.

Oddly, in two weeks, I'm set to run the OKC Half Marathon, an event held yearly to honor the 168 people who died in the bombing of the OKC Murrah Federal Building in 1995, a domestic act of terrorism.  I learned a popular phrase while living in Baku, "inshallah," which means, "God willing." Locals used the saying with most everything.  "See you tomorrow" was answered with "Inshallah."  The reply to "Will you be here next week?" was "Inshallah." I find it poignant in today's world.  Will I run the half marathon as planned? Inshallah.

Turning a Corner

For me, the first 6 months of sweet Annabelle's life were quite isolating.  I was breast feeding and pumping and since babies eat every 3 hours at the beginning, I was always "tethered" to my child.  By the time I would feed her and change her, I would have little time to do much else before the whole cycle would begin again.  We were pretty much home-bound, like house cats, watching the world pass by our windows.

If we were forced to run an errand, I would have to lug around the car seat with her inside, because until she started sitting up on her own at 6 1/2 months, it was impossible to put her in the front part of a shopping cart or in a high chair at a restaurant.  Isolation was gripping me.  Sure, I took this time to absorb everything about my darling child.  We snuggled, we read books, we sang songs, we played, we learned to roll over and then learned to crawl.  I looked into her eyes and told her that I loved her a hundred times every day.  But still, I needed to return to civilization STAT and I mean for longer than an aerobics class at the YMCA.

And then one day, after she had mastered high chair sitting, we were sharing a banana.  A mashed up piece for baby, a normal piece for mom, and back and forth, all the way to the nub at the end.  We were just two girls, enjoying a snack together.  She was babbling, I was talking about what I was going to cook for dinner, when I realized that we had turned a corner.  She was becoming a companion, not just a lump of baby.

Around this time, a dear friend had told me that AnnaB and I were about to embark on some real adventures together.  We were about to start having fun.  Since then, we are no longer stranded on our island, we run errands with the best of 'em.  We've vacationed several times, we go to dinner on Friday nights, we take swim lessons and we do activities at the library.  We are two gals out on the town!

I look back at AnnaB's first year and it's bittersweet.  She's no longer a baby and while I have appreciation for that time of her life, I'm thrilled to be tackling new experiences together.  Her first birthday party was a success, with family and friends and cake, lots of cake! She loved it all.  And I'm loving it all too.

The progression of a "cake smash".... cute birthday outfit on...

Cute outfit off, first bite of cake...

Liking the cake...

On the floor, diaper only.  Loving the cake and laughing!

Birthday girl in the middle and her party guests, Harrison & Madelyn.

Doldrums

I've heard people say that they were born in the wrong era.  Maybe they thought they were better suited for a flapper dress of the roaring '20s.  Or maybe that they'd be better off in a Laura Ingalls Wilder book on the unsettled prairie.  Maybe they fantasize about the 1950's drive-in theater, poodle skirts and muscle cars.

Not me.  I was born in the correct era, the 1980's to be exact.  Everything about the timing is perfect for me - big hair bands, Top Gun, modern conveniences.  I'm a born and bred Okie.  I routinely sing our state song (and popular Broadway show tune), "Oklahoma!" at the top of my lungs.  I'm proud that my state is full of "the nicest people" and that we pulled together after the 1995 bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building.  We are a strong, resilient group of folks.  Watch the nightly news during the springtime and you'll see that each report is a montage of tornado damage.  We rebuild, reconstruct and press on. My blood is a mix of Native Americans (probably Black Foot and Cherokee), Irish and English.  Like most Okies, I'm a mutt, which is humbling and character-building at the same time.  I like who I am, but these doldrums of winter (after the holidays and before spring blossoming) are the hardest, most depressing time of year.  I might have been born in the correct era, but definitely in the wrong geographical region.

We had the opportunity to briefly live in Denver and although I grew to dread the massive amounts of snow, at least I had a beautiful mountain range to look at or fun wintertime activities to keep me busy.  We literally had a white Christmas snuggled up in front of the fireplace, drinking hot toddies, and it was perfect, no complaining from me.  We were shoveling snow all the way through May, but something about the crisp, clear mountain air and spectacular views made up for the lack of warmth.

While in southern Florida a few weeks back, I felt like I shook off my persistent chill bumps and came alive.  It was the radiant sun, pleasantly mixed with humidity and blue skies that thawed my soul.   I'm a beach girl at heart and the Oklahoma winters, even mild ones, just about do me in. The never-ceasing wind, overcast days, with bitterly chilly nights just make me want to put my head under the covers and not come out until the temperate is at least 70 degrees outside.  Oklahoma in the winter resembles a barren wasteland.  If you were just passing through, you might consider never visiting again.  You have to catch it April - October to realize that it's not so bad, but I'm suppose to live in a 365-day warm environment.  I look better, am nicer and more energetic when the heat rises.  Everything about me could be improved if I moved down a few lines of latitude.  Some people enjoy having 4 distinct seasons.  Not me.  I want summer all year long.  I'm supposed to live in flip flops and sundresses with my hair bleached from the sun, pulled back into a ponytail.

But, like I said, we press on.  Each afternoon, we walk the dogs around the neighborhood (bundled up, of course) and I inspect every tree, every branch for a sign of a single bloom.  Just one is all it will take to get my hopes up that spring is around the corner.  I know it is.  It has to be!  I only have to make it through a few more weeks of the winter doldrums to feel a warm southern wind bringing everything back to life and perking me up, out of my winter blahs.

Baby girl on Christmas morning.  She's oblivious to the winter doldrums!

In warmer weather, Disney World!

Enjoying pineapple-flavored ice cream in Disney World.

Baby girl enjoying the warm evenings in Florida.
 

Watch me out grow my rugby bear!

Annabelle, 11 months old, February 1, 2013.

A New Year

I loooove to check things off of my to-do lists.  I loooove that sense of accomplishment of having a completed, marked-through, bullet-pointed list.  "Look what I've done today!" I want to yell from the roof tops.  One major problem with this lifestyle is that I find that I often "go through the motions" of life.  Shopping for Christmas presents, check.  Wrap Christmas presents, check.  Decide on menu for Christmas Eve get-together, check.  Buy said ingredients, check.  Have family over, smile for pictures, give big hugs, check.  I'm a continuous check, check, check.

Christmas Eve.  Check!

Annabelle and her New Year's Eve date, Harrison.

I was pleasantly surprised to have one of those days where I felt I was really living.  I accidentally forgot to "check."  The hubby, baby and I flew to Miami for a couple of days in the sunshine, followed by a half-marathon (for her) and a full marathon (for him) in Disney World (nothing says, "Happy 10 Year Anniversary" like a race!).

Annabelle and her daddy on the sands of the Atlantic.

It was our first day in Miami that I was check-less.  We awoke to a beautiful blue, sunny sky and 70 degree temperatures.  The splits on my fingers had healed overnight, thanks to the humidity, and my cheeks felt like they were glowing.  Breakfast was alfresco on a large veranda with a sea breeze and strong coffee.  We walked barefoot on the beach and watched Annabelle dip her toes for the first time in the Atlantic. Lunch was at Miami's South Beach area.  A lazy meal of excellent Cuban food while Annabelle waved to passer-bys from her high chair.  South Beach is a vibrant, techni-color world of freaks, geeks, snow birds, Europeans and a wild assortment of Latin folks.  We could have people-watched all afternoon.  It has an energy, a "buzz" that made my whole face grin.

An hour or so of beach time (baby didn't cooperate with my sunbathing agenda!) and then off to dinner at a little pizza joint one mile from our hotel.  "Let's walk it!" we decided.  Warm evening, easy chatter with soft baby gibberish to fill in any gaps.  A perfect day and not a single item was "checked".  I've got to put that on my list to do more often.

At South Beach!

Sign before the Disney half marathon at 4:30 in the morning!

Running by Cinderella's castle before dawn.

Finishing the race at Epcot just after sunrise.

Annabelle and her new Minnie Mouse!

Post-race party at Downtown Disney.

Watch me out grow my rugby bear!  Annabelle, 10 months old, Jan. 1, 2013.

                    

There's been a coup

Just when I think I have the hang of this thing - of motherhood - the baby says, "Mom, you have control of nothing!" and then gives an evil baby laugh.  She's an evil baby genius.  There are days when she is completely textbook - taking naps when she's supposed to, eating like she's supposed to, everything like she's SUPPOSED to.  She gives me just enough so that I think, "I've got this under control!" And then she takes all of the control back and turns my world upside down.  I'm powerless.  But how can I be upset at a face like this?

Watch me out grow my rugby bear! 8 months old, Nov. 1, 2012. Ready for Thanksgiving in her turkey dress.

Watch me out grow my rugby bear! 9 months old, Dec. 1, 2012.  Loves to wave at everything!

And loves to crawl everywhere!

Love this baby girl!

Some Sun

I have always thought that the ocean's waves and sea breeze rejuvenated my soul.  And when I cannot get to the shore, the next best thing is a little sunshine to refresh my heart.  I know.  I know.  I'm supposed to stay out of the sun these days.  Too much ultra-violet light and harmful rays cause wrinkles and premature aging.  But it just feels so good, and isn't that why I spend obscene amounts of money on skin-care products?

We (the hubby, the baby and me) had the opportunity to spend a few days in Houston in late October.  Beautiful weather.  Loads of sunshine and no wind.  And who better to spend quality time with than my Texas BFF, Lesli.  We were quite the crew: her son, Charlie, who is 3 weeks younger than Annabelle, plus her two older children.  There was plenty to keep us busy.  We squeezed in a couple of stroller walks and even an after-dinner jog.  But mostly, we drank coffee on the porch and enjoyed every ounce of sunshine that we could.  It was the perfect combination of good conversation and fresh air.

Kendall, Annabelle and Charlie enjoying a walk.

Halloween night was 80 degrees and our little flower and caterpillar were quite hot in their costumes.  Their patience was limited, but we did manage to squeeze in a few pictures before a complete melt down. 

Happy Halloween from Annabelle the flower and Charlie the caterpillar!

And before we knew it, it was time to pack up and head back home.  Lots of hugs and a few tears before saying good-bye.  It's more of a "until next time" because with such good friends, you always make an effort to reconnect.  Especially if there's sunshine involved.

Modifications

Pre-baby, I didn't mind running errands.  Getting this and that.  Browsing, chillaxin', checking stuff off of my list.  It was enjoyable.  Post-baby, it's a chore.  Even if I'm able to plan it just right so that we're between feeding and nap times, lugging the 8 pound car seat + 14 pound baby in the Oklahoma wind and weather is a hefty deterrent.  We better really need something for us to make an outing. Sure, I wish there would be peace on earth, but what I really, really want is a drive-thru window at the grocery store.  You know, for those days when we just need bananas and milk.

I rejoice because the heavens have smiled upon us and bestowed the gift of home delivery.  Hallelujah!  Everything from dog food to diapers is deposited on my door step twice a month.  Nothing in life is hassle free, as the UPS man insists on ringing my doorbell, even after I asked him politely to not do so.  It's not so much the doorbell that is the problem, it's the 3 (3!) barking dogs who then wake up the aforementioned napping baby. Simple solution, disconnect the doorbell.  Problem diverted.  Happy momma.

Exercise, particularly running, is a big part of my life.   It's a non-negotiable part of my day.  But,  since the hubby and I both detest pushing the stroller (23 pound stroller + 14 pound baby = 37 pounds of pure wind resistance), we compromise on our weekend runs.  Friday nights' ongoing debate is who gets to "run long" the next morning and be gone for over an hour.  Which one of us will sacrifice and either push the stroller (read: run really slow) and which one gets to be free as a jay bird? I can only pull the "girl card" so many times before it's really just not fair...."You're so much stronger than I am.  It's easier for you to push the stroller in the 20 MPH wind gusts.  Look at all of your muscles."  He's on to me.

We modify our lives.  A little tweak here and big change there.  But, so far, so good.  We're making it work.  Friends told us that people who only have one child aren't really parents.  I guess that's because the adult to child ratio is still in the grown-ups favor.  Whatever, I'll take it.  This is doable.

Watch me outgrow my rugby bear! Annabelle, 7 months old, Oct. 1, 2012.

Looking like Elton John in her big girl swing.

Hanging out with mom.