Hey, I know a lot of you who read this blog. Your turn to do something for me. I've been reading this blog for a long time. I don't personally know her, but you know how the virtual world works and isn't it an honor to be able to lift up needs in prayer to a merciful and present God?
Pray for Jamie, her family, and her friends. Put this on your church prayer lists and believe that God works miracles even in the unlikeliest of situations. Don't delay.
http://growingapair.wordpress.com/2009/06/25/a-heart-a-heart-my-kingdom-for-a-heart/
Reality is sinking in
Week 1 over, Week 2 begins now...
I finished reading Marathoning for Mortals and have decided I should wake up a bit early to get some food in me before kicking off a 5 a.m. run. Food = fuel, and apparently running upwards of an hour without food is bad. I'm going to have to pick up a heart rate monitor, everything that I read talks about heart rate zones and I tried to take my pulse while running last week and nearly severed my aorta with my own fingernails. I'm still in denial, like I think I can do this. I must admit that the hugeness of my decision is beginning to sink in and that the distance is enormous, but I'm still excited. I will function in the primitive sphere of excitability until I can mature into something less sporadic and more consistent (i.e. patience).
So, lessons from week 1: 5 a.m. is a lot earlier than it sounds, it's hot at 8 a.m. and will damn near kill you if running during June in Alabama (don't sleep through that 5 a.m. alarm), I am wildly afraid of failing, staying up late and expecting to still get up and run in the morning is stupid, and finally, the thrill of actually training with the goal being to run a marathon is like the first time you checked yes on that "do you want to be my girlfriend" box!
I'll keep everyone posted on my painfully slow process.
I finished reading Marathoning for Mortals and have decided I should wake up a bit early to get some food in me before kicking off a 5 a.m. run. Food = fuel, and apparently running upwards of an hour without food is bad. I'm going to have to pick up a heart rate monitor, everything that I read talks about heart rate zones and I tried to take my pulse while running last week and nearly severed my aorta with my own fingernails. I'm still in denial, like I think I can do this. I must admit that the hugeness of my decision is beginning to sink in and that the distance is enormous, but I'm still excited. I will function in the primitive sphere of excitability until I can mature into something less sporadic and more consistent (i.e. patience).
So, lessons from week 1: 5 a.m. is a lot earlier than it sounds, it's hot at 8 a.m. and will damn near kill you if running during June in Alabama (don't sleep through that 5 a.m. alarm), I am wildly afraid of failing, staying up late and expecting to still get up and run in the morning is stupid, and finally, the thrill of actually training with the goal being to run a marathon is like the first time you checked yes on that "do you want to be my girlfriend" box!
I'll keep everyone posted on my painfully slow process.
Sometimes the truth hurts
I had to let go of the image of us as a family last night. Whatever I thought would happen, it’s not happening. Whoever I thought I would be, I’m not. Whoever I thought Mason would be, he’s not. Whoever I thought my child would be, she’s not. I thought I could make some things happen through persistence and, the fact of the matter is, something’s cannot be willed and sometimes when you’re faced with an ugly reality, it stings.
My young child is a handful, and she knows it. I acquiesce to her superior willfulness and now it is time to change tactics, to learn from my mistakes, to build a better bridge. Being a parent to me isn’t so much about constant ooey, gooey love or never making a mistake…to me it’s about loving determination. I will never give up on morphing and shifting into the person she needs me to be to bring out the best in her. I will not continue to reach into the same bag of old failed tricks and expect it to work out differently. I succumb to the understanding that if it’s not working, move on…there is nothing to see here but the wreckage of failure.
I have always dreamed of having a very adaptable child (even before we had children). I wanted to be able to take her everywhere with us, do everything, expose her to everything, let her live a larger-than-life life. I talk of trips to foreign lands and imagine us three as this kind of team conquering life and the world. She’s having none of it. She needs and wants familiarity. She needs a set schedule. She needs the very thing that I dread the most, “the same”. We have so many meltdowns these days that it’s easy to see when, where and why they’re happening. She’s not home enough. We take her out too much. We don’t engage her passively enough. It’s go, go, go each and every day. We’re very busy people and we want her to fit into our very busy lives and she is saying, “I’ll pass” with every kick, scream, pinch, poke and word that comes out of her mouth. I came to understand last night, while manhandling her at a charity event that I had taken her to so that she could see her Daddy play, that 1) I should have left at least an hour and a half before I did; 2) and most importantly, she shouldn’t have been there in the first place. I took her because I wanted to go. That is honesty folks. She is not mentally ready to dragged around to all of these “cool” things and paraded in front of a million people who love her and want to dote on her. She’s not reached enough developmental milestones to understand that you go and have a good time and then you leave – this is what happens. She thinks every new moment should continue forever and I find her to be deeply resentful when the fun stops (thus the never ending tantrum/kicking/screaming/scratchfest that is my life now), and I end up deeply resentful that my best efforts blew up in my face. Up until last night, I obviously wasn’t developmentally ready either. I didn’t realize that no matter how much time I spend trying to give her “enough time” to enjoy herself somewhere (the park, a restaurant, swimming, swinging, watching daddy, etc), it cannot be enough right now. She doesn’t have and “enough” cup yet. I’ll have to try these in small increments and only on the weekends I’ve decided.
I’ve been blaming other people or activities or places for her behavior, but I think the responsibility lays squarely with the person who knows her best, me. She’s 2 ½. She’s not a terrible two, or a strong willed child, or something to be manipulated into doing what I want. She’s just a little girl and I’ve made life very exciting (by virtue of this, very confusing) for her and she doesn’t need so much excitement. She needs a mommy, who will sit down "right here" and play with her like she asks.
My young child is a handful, and she knows it. I acquiesce to her superior willfulness and now it is time to change tactics, to learn from my mistakes, to build a better bridge. Being a parent to me isn’t so much about constant ooey, gooey love or never making a mistake…to me it’s about loving determination. I will never give up on morphing and shifting into the person she needs me to be to bring out the best in her. I will not continue to reach into the same bag of old failed tricks and expect it to work out differently. I succumb to the understanding that if it’s not working, move on…there is nothing to see here but the wreckage of failure.
I have always dreamed of having a very adaptable child (even before we had children). I wanted to be able to take her everywhere with us, do everything, expose her to everything, let her live a larger-than-life life. I talk of trips to foreign lands and imagine us three as this kind of team conquering life and the world. She’s having none of it. She needs and wants familiarity. She needs a set schedule. She needs the very thing that I dread the most, “the same”. We have so many meltdowns these days that it’s easy to see when, where and why they’re happening. She’s not home enough. We take her out too much. We don’t engage her passively enough. It’s go, go, go each and every day. We’re very busy people and we want her to fit into our very busy lives and she is saying, “I’ll pass” with every kick, scream, pinch, poke and word that comes out of her mouth. I came to understand last night, while manhandling her at a charity event that I had taken her to so that she could see her Daddy play, that 1) I should have left at least an hour and a half before I did; 2) and most importantly, she shouldn’t have been there in the first place. I took her because I wanted to go. That is honesty folks. She is not mentally ready to dragged around to all of these “cool” things and paraded in front of a million people who love her and want to dote on her. She’s not reached enough developmental milestones to understand that you go and have a good time and then you leave – this is what happens. She thinks every new moment should continue forever and I find her to be deeply resentful when the fun stops (thus the never ending tantrum/kicking/screaming/scratchfest that is my life now), and I end up deeply resentful that my best efforts blew up in my face. Up until last night, I obviously wasn’t developmentally ready either. I didn’t realize that no matter how much time I spend trying to give her “enough time” to enjoy herself somewhere (the park, a restaurant, swimming, swinging, watching daddy, etc), it cannot be enough right now. She doesn’t have and “enough” cup yet. I’ll have to try these in small increments and only on the weekends I’ve decided.
I’ve been blaming other people or activities or places for her behavior, but I think the responsibility lays squarely with the person who knows her best, me. She’s 2 ½. She’s not a terrible two, or a strong willed child, or something to be manipulated into doing what I want. She’s just a little girl and I’ve made life very exciting (by virtue of this, very confusing) for her and she doesn’t need so much excitement. She needs a mommy, who will sit down "right here" and play with her like she asks.
What will I wear?
I will be running a marathon next February if God takes pity on me and I remain uninjured (must get the house sprayed for roaches to avoid mid-summer calf injuries).
I will be building my base mileage for the next 19 weeks and following every rule imagineable to prevent injury and to build habits for me to be successful. I will weight train, build core strength, and stretch.
I will actually start official “marathon training” the week of October 25 after having built up my weekly base mileage of 35 miles per week. 17 weeks from that point will end with the week of the Mercedes Marathon (I didn't plan this, it was just meant to be).
If you’re counting, that means 36 weeks of full time commitment to something that will ultimately be thrilling, painful, seemingly impossible at times, and completely life changing. That, is the length of time it took me to carry, nurture and ready myself for bringing my baby into this world. Those are the words I would use to describe that process of facilitating her life. That time it was for her. This time it is for me. Just like her little body patiently built inside of me week-by-week, I want to develop in much the same way. I do not want to get ahead of myself or try to do more than is possible too soon. I want to generate a new appreciation for my life with each passing mile/day/week. I want to nurture my faith and my relationship with God by taking these moments and using them to develop my prayer life when I am running alone and learning how to lean on God, not just when I am spent but also when I am fully able and proud of what I am doing. I want to nurture my family by making time to do something that brings me joy and pride. How do I teach my daughter to feel joy and pride in her accomplishments if I’ve forgotten the feeling and only live with the memory of it?
The end result is that on February 14th of next year (how appropriate), I simply hope to finish. In finishing, I hope to find a new kind of love waiting for me at the end of this process. I hope to be surrounded by the people I love the most, collapsing into the person I know God wants me to be, and appreciating life like never before. It might sound dramatic to you, but it’s my dream. And at almost 33 years old dreams are still magical.
P.S. Hey mom, everyone in this picture looks happy.
Do you believe in Magic?
So, a few posts ago I mentioned our photographer and our photo session downtown. Some friends of ours loved them enough to use her as well so I went to her website again today and was looking through their pictures, as well as, Grethel's blog and I came up on ours under this tagline, "Do you believe in magic". There they are! And, yes, to me they really are magical. I mean, they captured real magic for us. I hadn't posted them yet because I'm selfish and really they're so special to me that I haven't even know if I wanted to share them outright yet. Seeing them out though, I think I am ready.
I hope you enjoy the ones she posted and I will see if I can loosen the reigns and share some of my favorites from that day.
http://www.gvephotography.com/blog/do-you-believe-in-magic/
A photographer is a true gift if you can find one that sees life through the eye of their lens like you see it in live action.
I hope you enjoy the ones she posted and I will see if I can loosen the reigns and share some of my favorites from that day.
http://www.gvephotography.com/blog/do-you-believe-in-magic/
A photographer is a true gift if you can find one that sees life through the eye of their lens like you see it in live action.
Do you smell something?
My 2 ½ year old daughter’s only reference point for something smelling bad is “poopy”. Lately, this is providing unlimited entertainment opportunities. Last week, she and her daddy were playing with him in close proximity to her face. They were laughing, it was late in the day, and he must have breathed on her. As the story goes, she looks at him, wrinkles up her nose and says to him, “Daddy, your breath smells like poopy.” I am still laughing about this.
Fast forward to Saturday.
Same two characters (dad and daughter).
Clare’s been playing outside all day. She smells like Coppertone and sweaty kid. Daddy leans in to kiss her neck and says to her, “ooh, you stink!” Again, as the story goes, she recoiled from him with a look of disgust and says “nuh uh. I don’t stink. You…you…you have poopy on your lips!” I’ve laughed so hard at this one that I had tears streaming the sides of my face.
I’m really not sure how long this will go on, but it happened again this morning. She and I were on our way to school and out of nowhere she says to me, “Mommy, daddy has poopy on his lips.” Of course, I just died laughing and I’m trying to tell her, “Please don’t say this stuff at school, there is no telling what your teachers will think.” Then, she looks at me and says, “Well, Molly has poopy on her teeth, she stinks very bad. She must eat poopy when she’s outside” Then she starts laughing this really loud, forced laugh to go along with it.
I almost wrecked my car, I was laughing so hard. Then I started to have the imaginary conversation with the police officer as to why I had the wreck and explaining the poopy and basically got stuck in an endless loop of laughing, which was making Clare laugh her forced laugh harder, and me laugh harder and she just started saying “poopy” and I just laughed more…it was a riot.
If you had asked me three years ago if there was anything funny about poop, I would have given you a look of disgust and sworn that the stuff wouldn’t ever become the topic of conversation in our house. Now, it’s freaking hysterical. Go figure. I love the transformation that has allowed me not to take myself so seriously!
(I think I love this because I know that there will come a day when I will tell this story and still laugh, and she will look at me with disgust and wonder why I keep telling that same old story time and time again because it really isn't even funny)
Fast forward to Saturday.
Same two characters (dad and daughter).
Clare’s been playing outside all day. She smells like Coppertone and sweaty kid. Daddy leans in to kiss her neck and says to her, “ooh, you stink!” Again, as the story goes, she recoiled from him with a look of disgust and says “nuh uh. I don’t stink. You…you…you have poopy on your lips!” I’ve laughed so hard at this one that I had tears streaming the sides of my face.
I’m really not sure how long this will go on, but it happened again this morning. She and I were on our way to school and out of nowhere she says to me, “Mommy, daddy has poopy on his lips.” Of course, I just died laughing and I’m trying to tell her, “Please don’t say this stuff at school, there is no telling what your teachers will think.” Then, she looks at me and says, “Well, Molly has poopy on her teeth, she stinks very bad. She must eat poopy when she’s outside” Then she starts laughing this really loud, forced laugh to go along with it.
I almost wrecked my car, I was laughing so hard. Then I started to have the imaginary conversation with the police officer as to why I had the wreck and explaining the poopy and basically got stuck in an endless loop of laughing, which was making Clare laugh her forced laugh harder, and me laugh harder and she just started saying “poopy” and I just laughed more…it was a riot.
If you had asked me three years ago if there was anything funny about poop, I would have given you a look of disgust and sworn that the stuff wouldn’t ever become the topic of conversation in our house. Now, it’s freaking hysterical. Go figure. I love the transformation that has allowed me not to take myself so seriously!
(I think I love this because I know that there will come a day when I will tell this story and still laugh, and she will look at me with disgust and wonder why I keep telling that same old story time and time again because it really isn't even funny)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)