Who's Afraid of Santa's Lap?

Santa is visiting my daughter’s school soon.

She told me about it yesterday on the way home. “That’ll be fun,” I said, cringing inwardly.

Fake Santas aren’t my favorite.

I honestly don’t understand why we dress our children up in cute little Christmas clothes and take them to stand in a long line and then pay anywhere from $10 to $25 to terrify them by putting them on a stranger’s lap! It boggles my mind!

But back to my daughter…

“I don’t want to sit in his lap,” she said after a bit of hesitation.

“Okay,” I responded, resisting the urge to applaud. “Can I ask why?”

“I just don’t want to.”

“That’s fine,” I told her. “You don’t ever have to do something you don’t want to do.”

After she five minutes of “did you text my teacher” and “did you talk to my teacher,” I finally assured her that her teacher was aware that she did not want to sit in Santa’s lap.

And I thought that was the end of the discussion. But later that night, when we talked about picking out clothes, she suddenly, rather mysteriously, started not feeling well.

“What hurts?”

“Everything.”

“You don’t have a fever.”

“Are you sure? I think I feel hot.”

“Are you sure you just don’t want to go to school?”

“Don’t talk about school.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to sit in Santa’s lap.”

Now, I will take some credit for this.

I have never once indicated to my child that I think Santa is creepy or sitting in some stranger’s lap at the mall is creepy or even the concept that some stranger watches you all year long and then leaves you presents if you’re good is a little creepy.

But she is my child, so she has my genes. And I cannot recall one time that my parents forced me to sit in Santa’s lap. If I wanted to, fine… but I can promise you: I didn’t want to.

And if the evidence floating around on the Internet is any indication of how most children feel being thrust into the arms of a man with a (sometimes) fake, scratchy beard, then most children side with me.

Google search results = some smiling, most terrified

It’s creepy, Moms and Dads.

Cringe along with me as you check out this collection, published by Stuff You Should Know (SYSK).

These kids are terrified!

So maybe I am to blame for this fear of Santa Claus’s lap.

  

My little one is excited for Santa. She knows who he is. She writes him letters and leaves him cookies. She even thanks him for the gifts she receives.

But that doesn’t make sitting in his lap any less creepy or uncomfortable.

And years from now, I’d rather have a picture of her smiling, sans Santa, than a picture of her in tears on the knee of a stranger.

So we’ve developed a plan. She wants to tell him her Christmas wish list. And she wants to get the candy cane he gives them after their chat. She even is okay with a picture… as long as she’s standing near him and he’s not touching her.

But she won’t sit in his lap.

And I am 100 percent completely okay with that!

My Favorite Sweater

Almost a year has passed since I last wore my favorite sweater.

It’s a bright yellow cardigan with embroidered white polkadots. It buttons up and has long sleeves.

It’s my favorite because it’s sunny and bright. It’s both loud and soft at the same time. It makes me smile.

I like to think it is a lot like me.

About a year ago, I washed my favorite sweater with a handful of other colorful clothes… nothing out of the ordinary. Only, when I pulled the load from the dryer, my heart sank as I found a piece of clothing with green crayon smeared across it. Then I found another. And another.

Please don’t let my favorite sweater have green crayon on it, I thought.

I was sad and frustrated when I found it.

I tried to be reasonable: it’s just a silly piece of fabric, something I won’t like anymore a year from now. Something I’ll look back on and think… how could I ever get mad about that? But I couldn’t help but be mad.

When you become a mommy, there are lots of things you willingly sacrifice:

The (somewhat) flat belly is traded for one etched with stretch marks, for instance, and peaceful, sleep-filled nights in a spacious bed are replaced by kicks to the ribs and trips to the potty at 3 a.m. Your meals are no longer your meals, long baths are traded for quick showers, and you get up at 5 a.m. just to get some "me" time. Even going to the bathroom becomes a multi-person adventure!

Maybe it’s silly; maybe it borders on ridiculous. But that sweater was something that was mine. Just mine.

It made me feel beautiful and confident. It made me happy in a stupid, superficial way. And now it’s covered in green crayon splotches.

See? After numerous unsuccessful washes... still green.

It’s not like I shared my frustration with my children. Of course, I did talk about putting crayons where they go instead of in our pockets. And I talked about making sure crayons don’t end up in the dirty clothes hamper. And I scolded myself for not doing a better job of checking for such nasty little sweater ruiners. But that was the extent of it. 

Last night, while I was getting my clothes ready for today, I found my little yellow sweater tucked in the back of my closet.

It’s funny how a year can alter your perspective so dramatically. 

As I pulled the sweater from my closet, I remembered the last time I wore it: to dinner with my girlfriends. We ate at On the Border and shared jalapeño fire poppers and margaritas. And before that, I wore it to dinner with my husband, my brother-in-law, and his girlfriend last Christmas. We spent entirely too much money on amazing steaks and wine and then saw the lights of downtown Cincinnati. Both are great memories I’ll hold onto forever. 

And this was before margaritas!

My sweater, here, seeing better days...

And, yes, so I found it in the laundry with green crayon on it. But now, instead of frustrated, that memory makes me laugh.

I have a story to share when I wear this sweater. Those splotches are conversation starters. There’s a great green spot on the back shoulder, which is clearly visible when I turn to write on the board in the classroom. I’m curious if my students will ever bring it up… what a lesson in observation!

So, now, a year later, I dressed in this sweater… and I proudly wore it and the green splotches to work today.

Because it’s important that we not take life (or ourselves or our clothing or anything, really) too seriously.

And it's important that we hold onto memories and teach our kids what truly matters.

And, perhaps, it's most important that we realize a little crayon never hurt anyone. 

Imagine...

I wouldn’t consider myself a highly religious person. A spiritual one, yes. But religious, no.

I know many believe there to be a great difference between the two, but I don’t agree. I think the foundations of religion begin in spirituality, which is about the quest for justice and compassion and one’s desire to live a godly life.

Do I live faultlessly? No, but few do.

Do I recognize when I am at fault and work to be better, truer, more virtuous? Yes.  And I believe many do this, too, regardless of their claim to religion, spirituality, or neither.

But one indiscretion that seems increasingly, alarmingly so, prevalent today is the tendency to pass judgment. I’m not proud to say I am guilty of judging others, but I’d be lying if I tried to claim I had never done it.

I’ve found myself questioning something as superficial as the clothing choices of another shopper at the mall or what seem to me inconsequential rants on social media.

But when I do, I try to understand why I have such a reaction: is it perhaps jealousy or regret that drives my observations? After all, I am only human.

I believe being a writer gives me a unique perspective when it comes to understanding people. The more I work to present characters with depth and flaws, wit and lovability, the more I learn to really think about the motivation for the decisions people make.

How can I have a character do something shockingly outlandish or boringly predictable or heart-wrenchingly sacrificial without understanding the many facets of character and personality that influenced his or her choices?

Long time comedian and actor Robin Williams’ death has profoundly affected people across America: some are grieving, some are remembering, and some are criticizing. And to each his own; this is an individual’s right, and it is not my place to judge.

But… isn’t that the point? It isn’t any of our places to judge.

The Christian bible overflows with reminders that man has no duty, right, or responsibility to pass judgment on his fellow man.

From John 8:7, “And as they continued to ask him, he stood up and said to them, ‘Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her.’”

In Luke 6:37, “Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven.”

From Romans 2:1-3, “For in passing judgment on another you condemn yourself.”

And perhaps the most powerful of my chosen examples, from Ephesians 4:29, “Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear.”

Williams’ death and the outpour of both positive and negative reaction may have motivated this post, but it was long overdue, for it seems that living in a world of reality television, social media, and insta-everything continues to reduce man’s ability to be compassionate toward others.

With our ability to update the world on the goings-on of our lives every minute of every day, we continue to lose the very essence of what makes us different from other species—our humanity.

Instead, we scroll through newsfeeds, pointing at duck-faced selfies and laughing; wondering why we accepted that friend request from someone we went to school with in high school who wasn’t really a friend, even then; and living in a world of superficial interaction, allowing it to be substituted for time with friends and loved ones.

Of course, every person is entitled to his or her opinion. Original ideas are what make me different from you and you different from another. But an opinion is often a double-edged sword.

And it is almost too easy to pass one’s judgment off as mere opinion.

Instead of judging and chalking it up to “opinion,” maybe we should make a conscious effort to build one another up, to encourage and praise, and to show compassion.

A woman breastfeeding a newborn in public, her breast completely exposed, may be doing so deliberately to challenge the stigma associated with the female breast. She’s seen magazine covers in the grocery store revealing more than she is, anyway. She dares someone to say something to her. Then, again, though, she may be exhausted and relieved that the child is quiet and nursing, oblivious that she is revealing as much as she is. She’s left her nursing cover at home and the idea of nursing standing up in a dirty bathroom is too much for her right now.

A young, well-dressed woman with two well-dressed children at her heels and a Coach bag on her arm using her Lone Star card for groceries may have figured out how to cheat the system, but she may also buy their clothing second-hand and have received the purse as a gift, neither of which affects how she feeds those dependent mouths.

And a beloved comedian, who has given the world the gift of laughter for decades but has always been open about his struggles with depression and addiction, takes his own life. Is he damned for all eternity for this sin he committed, or is he freed of the bonds that led to such indescribable pain that he saw no other way out? 

No matter what belief system one adheres to, snide, judgmental comments only hurt; they cannot help. They hurt the woman who is trying to do best by her child; the single mother struggling to make ends meet; and the family of the man left to mourn his passing. They will suffer long after our careless comments have been made, our thoughtless judgment passed.

And who are we to hurt others like this? Who are we to care so much about sharing our opinion of others that we forget how badly words do hurt? Or how once words are said, they can be forgiven but rarely forgotten.

If we are more willing to consider—to just imagine—the details of lives we likely know nothing about, we might be less inclined to jump to conclusions or pass unfair or unfounded judgment.

As John Lennon once sang, “Imagine all the people living life in peace…”

CrAzY for Good Causes

My husband informed me yesterday he was creating a team for the October 2014 Tough Mudder in Dallas. I felt fear instantly. I know what those obstacle courses are all about. And just the idea is frightening.

It wasn't until today that the level of craziness really sank in: he paid for our registration. It is official. I am going to run the Tough Mudder.

If you are unfamiliar with what Tough Mudder is all about, here's a YouTube video that might help you understand the fear that first seized my heart when he said we're doing it:

I think the reason this is so frightening to me is because it requires me overcoming several very real fears.

• The fear of failing in front of an audience. Oh, and there's an audience. You can pay $20 to be a spectator. Seriously. So people pay to watch other people face-plant. Yep.
• The fear of water. I don't like water. I don't mind lounging in a lazy river if I can stand up in it if I want or need to. But I don't swim well, and I have to hold my nose to keep water from going into it. Ugh, water obstacles.
• The fear of murky water. Yes, I have seen the above video. I realize that the water is murky and muddy and gross. I've always HATED not being able to see what my feet are touching. I hate not being able to see what is right in front of me in the water. The only consolation here is that I will have shoes on, so that is good.
• The fear of heights. I don't like to climb to the tops of water slides that are only eight or nine feet off the ground. It makes me dizzy. I stepped to the edge of the Stratosphere observation deck only once and only for a few seconds because seeing the world from that height made me want to throw up. So the idea that I will be jumping and, probably, falling from undetermined heights makes me feel nauseous. 
• The fear of weakness. I am strong. Mentally and physically. I know I am. But I am not that strong. My upper body, my abs. I am going to need major strength training between now and October. 

But with all the fears I have to overcome, I have decided that they are nothing compared to the reason I am training. 

My team chose the name Boobs, Beards, and Freedom, which gets a chuckle out of most who hear it. But there is more to the name than humor. These are the organizations we support and these are the organizations for which we train:

1. Wounded Warrior Project. The "Freedom" in our name refers to America's freedom and the soldiers who protect it. I cannot say enough about Wounded Warrior Project and what it does to help the wounded soldiers of our nation. We live in a nation of brave men and women who sacrifice themselves, in part and sometimes in whole, for the lifestyle we live. Giving back to them is the least I can do to show my gratitude, especially considering I am able to go out and overcome my superficial fears because they faced real fears on the battlefield. Wounded Warrior Project is the organization the Tough Mudder works to support, and a portion of my personal fundraising will benefit this worthy cause. 
2. Breast Cancer Awareness. "Boobs" is a shout-out to the other cause we are working to support. This is a cause close to my heart, considering my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer when she was thirty-seven years old. I just had the fourth mammogram of my life this morning, and I will continue to promote the importance of self-exams and breast cancer awareness. When I was ten, I watched my mom, and since then, other friends and family of friends, overcome great fears as they fought for their lives, and I am proud to be able to give to an organization that is working to educate women about breast health and to raise money for research to bring an end to this disease. October is breast cancer awareness month, and I hope to dedicate a portion of my fundraising efforts to a worthy breast cancer awareness organization.
3. Health and Happiness. How does the "Beard" fit in? Well, my husband celebrates "freedom from razors," as he calls it, beginning July 4th weekend. As his beard reaches the point where I start to hope for January (which is when he usually shaves again), he reminds me that a beard makes him a man; it shows he is healthy, and it is his right as an American! So in celebration of our bodies--these temples we should worship and care for--we will run ten to twelve miles and endure twenty-five obstacles with names like Fire in Your Hole, Arctic Enema, and Ladder to Hell. Because, hey, we can, right? And, well, let's face it: because we're crazy.

If you'd like to join our team, there's still time, but these obstacle course runs sell out fast! Visit the team page and join team Boobs, Beards, and Freedom: 

https://www.eventbrite.com/e/tough-mudder-dallas-saturday-october-4-2014-registration-10081910265

And if crazy isn't your thing but you still want to root us on, please check back. I hope to set up a donation page soon!

I. DID. IT!

Imagine my best impersonation of Gerard Butler as Leonidas in 300 screaming "This is Sparta!" as you read the next lines:

I. DID. IT! 

I ran a half marathon. The whole thing. 13.1 miles.

I haven't written much - if anything - in 2014, though I resolved to blog my training and race prep sometime back in January. So much for such resolutions. 

But today, post-run, I'm feeling like I should make an attempt to remember some of the small details of yesterday, so here it is: my breakdown by mile of my half marathon experience.

Training for the Insanity. This is where it really all begins. My cousin decided she was going to run the Rock 'n' Roll Half Marathon in Dallas. And so I said I would, too. I paid for it in early January. And once you pay for the race, especially an expensive race, there's no backing out. 

Then for twelve weeks, I trained. Sort of. I followed a plan I found online. Two days off a week, five days running. That sounded doable. Back in 2008,  I read a book titled The Nonrunner's Marathon Guide for Women: Get Off Your Butt and On with Your Training (you can check it out here on Amazon) and was inspired by the humorous approach to this whole running-for-an-ungodly-amount-of-time thing. But I never have really had any desire to run 26.2 miles… no offense, of course, to those who have such desires. 13.1 seemed much more my cup of tea. 

In my training, I met some obstacles. I switched to a different pair of shoes that pretty much destroyed my knees in the first few weeks, for one, and I found that the more I ran on my long run Sundays, the longer it took me to recover during the week, meaning I cut out two of my three weekly run days completely and opted for the elliptical and weight training instead. But training was okay… I survived ten miles on my longest run, had energy to spare, and was convinced I was crazy but prepared.

The Day before the Insanity. My family accompanied me to Dallas. We went down the day before, and my stomach was in horrible shape. I know that our bodies know what to do and do what they should to prepare for such things - like childbirth or running two plus hours straight - and my body was in full prep mode, let me tell you. If you ever wonder, the QuikTrip on 380 at I35 in Denton has really nice facilities as far as gas stations go. The Omni's facilities are considerably nicer, of course, but that's to be expected, right? 

I had a glass of wine with lunch to calm down, and it helped ease my nerves, if that's what was causing it all. Plus, the Expo was cool, and I got one of those car stickers that says 13.1 because that's the most important part of running the whole half: getting to advertise it on my car!

I also made out with some pretty awesome gifts from my family. Thanks, guys! 

Morning Insanity. I'm a little bit OCD in many areas of my life, and so, even though the run didn't start until eight, I set my alarm for six. I had everything ready: my high protein almonds and protein bar for breakfast; my timing thing attached to my shoes; my bib with safety pins on it, ready to attach to my shirt; and my clothes all laid out in the bathroom, where I got ready quietly to avoid waking the family. My cousin, who inspired me to sign up for this in the first place, texted at 7:08 that she and her friend would meet me at the elevators, so I shimmied out of my long sleeved shirt (which I'd had on and off at least twice already) and headed out the door. 

A minute later I slipped back through the door to find my sunglasses. I couldn't, so I gave up and went without them. 

Two minutes later, after meeting the ladies at the elevators, I returned for the long sleeved shirt I wasn't sure if I needed or not. 

Then, we were off to the lobby to wait. 

Waiting in the lobby… the shirt and armband shenanigans in the lobby hadn't begun yet.
Oh, and I'm on the left.

That's the part I hate the most about any run, no matter the distance. I hate waiting for the start. I want to run when I want to run… I hate anticipating. 

So in the lobby, I talked a lot (because I was nervous) and I took my shirt on and off a few more times. I put my arm band with phone in it on under the shirt and over the shirt. Then I pulled it off again and tried to get my phone out because I wanted to take pictures. Then it was bathroom break time, and I got a text… at this point, my phone was under my long sleeved shirt as I tried to figure out how I was going to wear it (these are all really big decisions, right?). 

I'm positive my cousin and her friend think I'm a lunatic. 

And with twenty minutes to race start, we headed out to join the other "half nuts" runners (see picture above for explanation) in our designated corral. 

Waiting for Insanity to Start. I don't know what I was thinking this would be like… I don't know that I had a clear picture in my mind, but I was blown away by the grandeur of it all. 

Still about five corrals from the start

First, the bodies on these elite runners were amazing. The ones warming up as we walked across from the hotel lobby toward the starting line were incredible. Not an ounce of fat on them. Just chiseled, beautiful muscle. I saw more than one pair of legs that just had me in awe. I wish I had pictures of these  runners!

Second, the amount of people was incredible. I think there were about 9,600 runners total, and to see them all gathered there in their best running gear - compression socks in all shades, crazy hair or wigs, chevron skirt and bra sets, teeny, tiny shorts. It was crazy. We were in corral thirteen of sixteen - I estimated my finish time at 2:30 - so we got to walk by quite a few people before we found our place in the starting line. 

And third, I wasn't prepared for the anticipation I'd feel. I wasn't annoyed that we were having to countdown and wait, like I sometimes get at the start of 5Ks when I just want to get started and get it over with; I was sick to my stomach nervous. 

Facebook post as evidence

Lots of thoughts were going through my head. I thought about my heart, wondering if it was strong enough for something like this (doomsday scenarios ran through my mind!); I worried about my knees, which were feeling a little weak; I wondered about my stomach and if my marathon pooping sessions might return.

I started my music and stopped it again, several times actually, worried that RunKeeper and my music might kill my phone before I could finish and find my family. I finally decided yes to RunKeeper, no to music, and I wound my earbuds up and put them away...

Amy, Shelli, and me!

The Insanity Begins. And then the announcer asked if Corral Thirteen was ready to get started, and it was our turn to begin. Right out of the corral, someone tripped and fell. I looked over and thought, crap, that could have been me. If anyone could fall in this run, at the beginning, it would be me. But I stayed on my feet and even dodged a water bottle that came rolling toward me a few minutes later. 

The race route took us right by the grassy knoll and across the Xs that marked where JFK was shot as his car traveled along the downtown Dallas road. I heard a few people beside me talking about it as we started. It was a cool morning, around 50 degrees, with about sixteen mile an hour winds, but with the buildings surrounding us, it wasn't too bad. And I was feeling good in that first mile.

Mile Two. Somewhere between the first and second mile markers, a live band was playing, and that was a fun addition to the run, considering I'd decided against music. I'm not sure what I was thinking when I made that decision, and it took me only about thirteen minutes to realize music would have been a good idea, even if my battery did die. 

I was surprised, too, to see that there was already a line waiting at the first port-a-potty station between miles one and two. Who needs to pee after one mile? Or maybe those were cases of nervous belly! I'm glad mine happened the day before, then. 

Mile Three. A great amount of mile three was uphill. A coworker, who had run the Rock 'n' Roll Dallas before, assured me that it was relatively flat… that is, compared to Fort Worth's CowTown. So when we started climbing that first incline, I was wondering how our definitions of flat could differ so greatly. I probably started out too fast, honestly, because I was struggling at the end of three miles, wondering how one major incline could make this seem like the longest 5K in the world. 

Miles Four and Five. At some point, we moved out of downtown and into a residential area… one of the nicest residential areas I'd ever seen. The houses were humungous with cars with emblems I didn't even recognize in the drives. And the scenery was a nice distraction to the fact that my right hip flexor was feeling tight.

Somewhere in this stretch I decided I should chew my little Gatorade chewy thing that was supposed to give me energy. I tend to be pretty clumsy, so I have to balance watching where I step and keeping my eyes on the horizon instead of the road in front of me. But I had been noticing, for a mile or so, discarded little chews like the one I was carrying. I had two on me, just in case, and I kept seeing random ones dropped and forgotten along the course. I thought, awh, I hope that person had another one every time I saw one because I just imagined that being the last little energy buddy that runner had. Then, I started wondering just how they had been dropped. I mean, how hard can it be to get the chew from the package in your hand to your mouth? 

Well, I found out when I tried to put mine in my mouth. A combination of factors - movement, cold hands, sticky chewy thing - probably kept those discarded ones from reaching their destinations, which is exactly what happened when I fumbled with the first one of my two. My fat fingers couldn't grip it, and it slipped right to the course beneath my feet. I glanced back, watching it land and stick, and muttered damnit, but inside I was thinking, awh, I'm so glad I have another!

It was here, too, that I decided I really did need my music. So, knowing what state my fingers were in, I fumbled absently with the earbuds, trying to get them unwound. It was easier than I anticipated. My phone has the "shake to shuffle" feature, which I forgot to turn off, so I shuffled through a few Tangled and Frozen songs before settling on something from one of the Twilight soundtracks. Obviously, I forgot to get around to downloading a run mix like I meant to. 

Mile Six. I chewed my little energy thing and was almost instantly overcome with an insatiable thirst. (Not to mention I have extremely sensitive teeth, and that stupid little chew was like those Swiss Fish candies, sticking to my teeth!) I thought, we haven't had water in a while… surely there is water soon. But there wasn't. I couldn't see any coming up… let me tell you, mile six, with no water and stupid gummy stuff stuck in my teeth, was not a very fun mile. Oh, yeah. And it was uphill, too. 

Mile Seven. The RnR half has a relay option, and the handoff was happening at Mile Seven, which was good news because I figured that meant water. I was wrong. What looked like it might have been a water station was packing up… discarded cups were being swept into bags and tables were being broken down. Seriously? Where is the water? 

Maybe it was just to tease me - yes, me, personally - but the water was just around another corner, and it really helped me feel refreshed in what was turning out to be the worst part of the thirteen miles. 

Mile Eight. At some point between miles six and eight, which I'm pretty sure were all uphill, my determination and focus started to wane. I didn't want to be running thirteen miles anymore. I didn't care that I'd been training for it. I didn't care that I would be able to mark it off my bucket list. I didn't care. I saw cars passing on my left, and I wanted to be in one of them. I wanted to be watching college basketball. I wanted to be grading papers. But I really, really, really did not want to be running.

And then my saving grace appeared in the form of a middle aged man wearing a red shirt and jeans. I can't even remember which group he was representing, but he shouted, "Runners, you've got this! Two more inclines and then it's downhill for two and a half to three miles!" And I could have jumped for joy! I think I even picked up the pace, excited to get to those downhill miles. 

About this point, too, I saw three service men cheering us on, and I paused in my wallowing to thank them; their presence gave me inspiration as I realized just how inconsequential what I was doing truly was compared to what they do on a daily basis. 

And then I read a motivational sign that said, "This is still easier than labor and delivery." So true, I thought, and gave the family a thumbs up. I gave birth to two seven pound babies! I can do this!

Mile Nine. I'd been noticing for some time a man in a yellow jacket on a bike. He kept appearing, out of breath, on the side of the street. He'd look through the runners… but it was a long time before he finally spotted her. I don't know if she was his wife or girlfriend. Maybe she was just a friend. But he faithfully followed her the entire time on his bike, snapping pictures along the way. I think it was mile three when I first noticed him… but mile nine was the first time I was able to figure out just who he was following. It made my heart happy. 

Mile Ten. At mile ten, I was really in need of water again. But Gatorade sounded really nice, too. (As a matter of fact, there'd been no Gatorade stations as of yet.) Ahead of me, people were veering right, and I was excited because that meant water! But it turned out to be a station of promotional gel goo stuff, like the chews. I took my chances with one. (I know, I know! The "try nothing new on race day" advice was going through my mind as I tore the top and squeezed a tiny bit of the stuff in my mouth.) It was strawberry kiwi, and it wasn't bad… just sort of weird. I don't know if it did anything or not. Luckily, a station of Gatorade and water was up next, and I grabbed three cups total. I was desperate for it. 

Between miles ten and eleven, I saw some of the funniest signs of the race. I'd seen in some of the prep articles I'd read that the signs were really inspirational and humorous… a great part of the run. For the first half, I only noticed a few that made me smile. There was the "Worst. Parade. Ever." one and "Where's everyone going?" One said, "Great stamina. Call me." And there were some variations on what does the fox say… run, run, run, run, run. Some others promised that Ryan Gosling and Bradley Cooper were at miles twelve and thirteen, respectively… but my favorite was probably a simple one, colored by someone's little one, that said, "My momma is awesome!" 

Oh, yeah… and that three mile downhill trek that was promised back at mile eight had begun at some point here, so I was happy again. 

Mile Eleven. When I saw the marker for mile eleven, I was officially into territory I'd never visited. In my training, I'd only accomplished ten at once due to an upper respiratory infection that kept me down for a few weeks. At this point, too, my left big toe started feeling like it was going to fall off. That, or my toenail was peeling off. Either way, it was hurting. But I wasn't going to quit. I kept seeing people step off for the potty or to stretch. It was tempting to take my shoe off and see what was going on. But really, what could I do in the middle of the run with my injured toe? Most likely, if I stopped, I would have trouble making my knees start again… and then I'd have to limp the rest of the way in. Besides, I promised myself I'd run the whole thing. The. Whole. Thing. So I tried to ignore my toe.

Instead, I focused on counting what I hoped was tenths of a mile. My RunKeeper was turned down, so I wouldn't be focusing on my pace, so I was forced to guess… I think this is one-tenth of mile eleven and this must be two-tenths… and like this I ran the eleventh mile. 

Mile Twelve. To say I was ecstatic at mile twelve would be an understatement. I might have been delusional at this point, but when I saw that marker with the glorious number twelve on it, I picked up the pace. My husband and kids were waiting one-point-one miles away. I can do anything for a mile. Anything. ANYTHING! I mean, a mile at my normal pace is only ten minutes. And ten minutes is nothing… (You can really see how running long distances is as much mental as it is physical.) 

I was on the fair grounds, where the finish line was, and rounding a corner when the mile thirteen marker came into sight. I could have cried. And to add to my already emotional state, I heard a little girl, probably ten or eleven, call out, "You got this, Daddy! You're so close!" It was like she was cheering for me, too! 

Mile Thirteen. Or the Point One, I guess. A whole lot is going on at the finish line of a race. People are on all sides of the stretch just before the finish line, runners come out of nowhere from behind you as they sprint to the finish, and people are coaxing you forward from beyond the finish line with goodies in their hands. It was a whirlwind of confusion for someone who has never run an event of this magnitude.

Whatever it is in your mind that allows you to mentally overcome your body's weaknesses holds on until that finish line. Then, all bets are off and you are on your own. I didn't cry, like I thought I might, but I was overcome with this extreme sense of accomplishment. My barriers were all down, and it was time to sit and relish the fact that I had just run for two and a half hours, by my best guess. 

Someone gave me my finisher's medal and another person snapped my picture. I know I was grinning ear to ear. Then, people started pushing things into my arms - water, Gatorade, chocolate milk (WHOLE chocolate milk, uhh… yum?!), pretzels, a protein bar, a Jersey Mike's sandwich, an ice/heat pack, more water, a banana, a bagel, a wrap to keep me warm. I couldn't carry it all, and I didn't see anyone I knew, and the excitement I felt at finishing left as quickly as it came, leaving me just completely overwhelmed. It is amazing how the emotions I held in check for two and a half hours rushed out and left me physically and emotionally spent in a matter of minutes.

In the end, after I found my family, got much-deserved hugs and kisses, and snapped some pictures, I had some time to reflect on everything this run taught me:

• Running uphill is probably my least favorite thing in the world. 
• If you want to know your mile splits, leave your dang armband and phone alone during the run! (When I turned my music on, I inadvertently paused RunKeeper and didn't know it.)

• A famous mom mantra is to always wear clean underwear… well, I would argue that the type of underwear you wear is equally important. Chafing is real and can occur anywhere!  
• Our minds are incredible, powerful tools, and if we have the right mindset, we can get through just about anything.
• Long-distance running is not for me or my knees. I'm incredibly glad I did it, but I think I can stick to three to five miles a day and be content. 
• I have some amazing family and friends, who kept me motivated from training to the finish line. Thank you, all!

My girlies and me

Me and my honey

Meaning What You Say

I've never been one to say exactly what was on my mind.

I've always wanted to be that way. I know people like that, and I've always assumed that their lives were somehow less complicated because they didn't hold onto the regret that sometimes accompanies biting one's tongue.

But, instead, it has always been my nature to smile and keep my thoughts to myself where they could inflict no harm.

Of course, there are occasions that required a response, or situations where remaining silent would have negative consequences--for me or someone I love. And in those instances I do not hesitate to speak up. But those situations aren't the norm.

Having kids has made me a bit more vocal, for their sakes if nothing else. And I've always thought getting older would make me care less who I offended. But that's not really true.

I spoke up today about something nagging and irritating, something I would have easily dismissed with that smile and bite of the tongue ten years ago.  It wasn't a major injustice or wrong; but it was a personal injustice, one that spoke against my character and made me feel belittled and unappreciated. And no one should be made to feel that way.

So I stood up for myself.

At the time, it felt good to be brave. I was overcome with a heady confidence. It was the first step toward being the new less-accommodating, more-outspoken me.

Those feelings lasted a short while before the unfounded guilt set in. Oddly, though I was in the right, because the other party never accepted fault, my triumph was somehow significantly diminished.

It was never about being right and proving the others wrong; but I guess I hoped that, by standing up and speaking my mind, I might earn a well-deserved apology... or, at the very least, acknowledgment that I had stepped far beyond my comfort zone and the gamble paid off.

In the end, I didn't get any of that. And here I am, still worried about how what I said affected the other party when I'm sure I am the last person on that individual's mind right now.

At least I meant what I said; I will stand firmly by it.

And maybe one day this speaking my mind business will get easier - if only I can accept that my attempts to be true to myself won't always be met by truth from others.