The Other Half (Marathon)

About a year ago, I decided to do something about my fitness. My back hurt. I was tired. I was sad and grumpy, out of sorts, and kind of lumpy (thanks to Ann Dewdney and Grumpy Gloria for aptly describing not only a sad, fat bulldog, but also me).  Swimming is bad on my naturally golden locks, and my bestie had taken up running. I decided to give it a whirl.

I started out at a 14-minute mile. Yes, I was running. Yes, it really took me that long. Yes, I was proud I could run a mile. Then I ran 2, 3, and even 4. My times came down. I ran a 5K and a 10K.
I started to get ideas. Crazy ideas. I signed up for a half marathon.

My goals shifted. I aimed for a sub-11 mile, then under 10. Last month, I paced below a  9-minute mile for a whole 10K.I set a few more goals. My race plans were set. I was going to run a half marathon in less than 2 hours. I had the legs. I had the ambition. I had the shoes, the leggings, the sweatband, blister-proof socks, anti-chafe balm, and headphones. I trained. I cross-trained.

As race day approached, I hydrated. I ate protein and carbs. I could see the finish line, and I visualized the clock time and again (just like my old swimming days had taught me.) I envisioned the healthy breakfast I would eat on race day: a bit of cereal, perhaps some fruit, a relaxing cup of tea. I planned my outfit (key, as any girl can tell you): an adorable white running skirt, blue hat, blue shirt.

This morning, I dragged myself out of bed at 4:30 a.m., took a shot of Imodium and assessed the damage. The stomach flu had knocked me down. I missed RJ's 6th birthday party and most of the 24-hours leading up to race day.

This morning, I ran my other half-marathon. The one I hadn't planned. I donned my old black leggings ('cause you know, Imodium) and scraped my hair into a ponytail. My pre-race diet? A cup of chicken broth and all the Powerade I could take down in 2 hours before crashing at 8:30 the night before the race.

By the 6:30 a.m. start time, we were walking away from the starting line and into a downtown office building, where we watched the radar for an hour of race delays. Rumors abounded. Cancellation seemed imminent (and I was secretly really happy).

At 8:15 a.m., the starting gun sounded, and we shuffled into the mass of discarded trash-bag ponchos. By mile 4, somewhere around the state capitol, I started to believe I could make it to the  halfway point. By mile 7, I had completely drained my handheld Powerade stash and was desperately seeking the next water stop. There wasn't enough water in Lake Hefner to adequately hydrate me.

Somewhere around mile 8, I started high-fiving toddlers and old men on the sidelines. At mile 11 I started counting down the distance instead of up.

And suddenly, 2 hours and 8 minutes later, I ran across the finish line.  I didn't break 2 hours, but I came close. Eight minutes isn't all that long in the grand scheme of things. Today, those 8 minutes were insurmountable. I'm okay with that.

It wasn't the half marathon I had envisioned. That will be some other race, some other day.

For now, I'm pretty proud of my other half-marathon--the one I finished!  (And I'm awfully proud of my racing buddies too):

After a 2-hour delay, we were ready to go!

We did it!

A Little Blue Engine (and an Afternoon at the Pumpkin Patch)

RJ and Thomas are buds. They used to be really tight, hanging out almost every night and eating breakfast together. Thomas even went on road trips with us. I remember the night they met:

RJ and I took a trip to Toys 'R' Us that night. Little did I know the treasure trove I had unlocked with one little blue train--hours of play, countless bedtime stories.  

And then one day, big Thomas came to town: 

He was so little!

A year of bedtime stories passed, and big Thomas came to town again: 

We added Tidmouth Sheds to our train table at home; Victor, Skarloey, and Fergus joined our happy little railway.  And, big Thomas came to town again: 

Surely, this was our last year. Surely, my bestie is going to outgrow Thomas and our little railway at home. I'll miss that little blue tank engine and all of those bedtime stories. 

But, this year, Thomas came to town yet again: 

We added a little sister to the mix; she loves Thomas, but she was a little unsure of big Thomas. (Yes, those are the same shoes her brother wore on his first visit. I'm a sentimental fool--and I love saddle shoes.)

GiGi was not amused at this point in the day. 

But earlier....

I think she enjoyed the ride. 

They both did. 

Awwwwwww.....

Later that day, RJ and his daddy were talking. "RJ," his daddy said, "Someday, there will be a time when you won't want to go see Thomas; it makes me sad." 

"Awwww Dad, come on!"

He'll grow up too soon. Secretly I hope that when he's 16, he'll sneak the keys to the swagger wagon one Saturday afternoon, convince his pals that he knows the perfect place to get some BBQ and beer (of the root sort, of course), and take a ride down memory lane with his old pal Thomas. 

Sitting shotgun?

His bestie. They'll swear this never happened. But it did. And it's adorable. They also hug each other after soccer goals and give pats on the back for skinned knees. 

Today, they conquered the biggest maze in the whole wide world. 

And picked out a pumpkin or two on their class field trip. 

RJ overcame his fear of ponies. 

Fall is my favorite season. Mostly because we get to go to the pumpkin patch, and I can capture some sweet pictures of my bestie before he gets too big, before Thomas is stored in a box up high in the closet, and while bedtime stories are still best shared with his mommy. 

Chips, Dip, and Hi-C

When I was four, I met a little girl with dark blond hair. We played in the sandbox together. When we were seven, I knocked out one of her teeth on the playground (by accident). When we were 8, I spent the night at her house when my mom had her appendix taken out. We stayed up all night--on a school night! And, when we were 10, I cried because I thought she wasn’t going to be my best friend anymore.  We had slumber parties--where there was very little slumber. She remembers why chips, dip, and Hi-C are a special treat. And, she still remembers that we had a secret language (Hoy!). 

She gave me my first taste of Nestle' Quick--and laughed with me when we realized she had mixed it with buttermilk. I questioned her love of raw tomatoes and watermelon. Somewhere in there, I envied her embroidery skills in Camp Fire meetings and laughed when she dressed up as the Jolly Green Giant for Halloween. We trick or treated as punk rockers, and squealed when the doorbell rang at her house--boys! From our class!

When we were 13, I transferred junior high schools.  After months at a school where no one said hello, I walked into a new counselor’s office in a new school, and there she was--open arms, giggles, and hugs I haven’t forgotten. We cried together when her mom suddenly died later that year. We sunburned our feet at White Water together. We passed notes and giggled about boys.

Our friendship took different paths. I missed her when I started spending more time with the music kids, and she found new friends too.

But, we never missed a birthday. When I turned 16, she was the one I wanted to spend the day with. Senior year, she had the best hair. Curly. Wavy. Naturally gorgeous. We hugged at high school graduation. We swam together after hours at the city pool with our boyfriends.  In college, she was the only person in the world who could get me on a dance floor, and she bought me my first bottle of wine (I promise we were 21!). She was there when I graduated from college, and I wouldn’t have missed her graduations for the world. I cried when she crossed the stage for that hard earned optometry degree.

She danced at my wedding, and I danced at hers. When I called to tell her I was pregnant with R.J., she cried because she was happy. And because she was pregnant too. Our babies are two days apart.

I hardly ever see her anymore. We send text messages. And e-mail. We commensurate. On mommy issues. And family. And boys. She’s an encourager, and she has a sense of humor that makes everything all better. She is raising a delightful toddler girl, and a precious tiny one too.

This weekend, I spent a rare afternoon on her sofa. We ate sandwiches and chips and dip. No Hi-C, but Tinkerbell plates and napkins made it a special treat. She listens, and she cares. Our lives have taken different paths. We rarely have time to visit. But, for a brief two hours on Saturday, I got to be 13. We giggled over darling baby girl clothes. I held her precious little one and kissed her little one’s precious cheeks. I marveled at this woman who is my best friend. A doctor. A mother. And a good one at that. She is beautiful--particularly with a three-year old at her feet and a two-month old in her lap. She is amazing. I miss her. (I love you Angie!)

Today, We Celebrate

Two weeks ago, I attended a princess party for a toddler. This past weekend, I celebrated a very different kind of birthday. The birthday girl wore a tiara. We sang a song with her name in it. She turned 41.

She hugs me when I arrive--despite the fact that she's closer to my mom than to me.  Mom drives her dialysis once or twice a week, sometimes less, sometimes more. They've become friends, I think even more. Mom loves her dearly (and so do I).

"Come in," she says. "I'm a mess--putting on makeup."  I comment on a picture of her with her kids and grandbaby. "Thanks, we had four poses," she leads me into her bedroom to see all four. "Look at these boots my son got me," she shows me great stiletto boots with silver studs. "Today, I'm about comfort," she giggles.

She has this knack for making people feel welcome, from the toddler to the 80-year old man (at a 41 year old's pink princess party).  "Ellis!" "It's so good to see you!" "Here, take my chair."

A guest arrives and tells us, "The neighbor wanted to know if there's a funeral." "I told her 'no!' Today, we celebrate!" says the guest, hugging other guests.

She wears here hair piled in a loose topknot and says, "Lilly has the prettiest hair. I love it when she wears it down."   "What size do you wear now Regan?" "I'm a double zero," she sighs, "Can't buy clothes  in this town anymore."

When asked to describe her, guests write: stylish, loves babies, courageous, fighter.

"Thanks," she says in response to a compliment. "I bought it with the gift card you got me." "I love these floaty tops because they hide my tummy." (despite being a size double zero, she has the disconcerting look of being 6 months pregnant).  She's childlike in her acceptance of herself (and others--it's a gift).

We share glances. I hope she doesn't notice.

Noticing a guest's green "Ireland" jacket she tells us, "I tell my kids I want my ashes spread in Ireland." Matter of fact.

"This is my baby," she introduces her grandbaby. "Nan nan nan," he chortles as he crosses the floor to climb into her arms. She snuggles her cheek against his--bliss, love.

We sing a song with her name in it: "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you." Because we are Christian, we follow our former pre-k teacher's lead and sing, "God's blessings to you, God's blessings to you, God's blessings dear Veronica, God's blessings to you."

We mean this with all of our hearts.