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!

Curls for the Girl: Frozen Fantasy

A few years ago, I started seeing signs for daddy-daughter dances. Daddy-daughter dances? What are these newfangled parties? Are we really sending little girls on dates with their dads now? I don't even get a date with Gigi's dad anymore (yes, we're still married--I know how that sounded). I scoffed. I poked fun. I wondered at the wisdom of spending hard-earned cash for toddler dancing dresses. If you spend $30 on a dress for a dance when they're two, what on earth will you be spending for prom? Or for a wedding dress (shudder)?

Then I had a baby girl. A pink bow on her head (I would say in her hair, but I'd be lying--my little woman was darn near bald, but bald is beautiful). Her daddy wore pink the day she was born, and so began that relationship that can only be understood by another daughter who thinks her daddy hung the moon too.

Gigi and her daddy have a thing going on. I'm okay with it. My daddy and I had (have) a thing going on too. There used to be a cute little warning label that made the rounds on the Internet--something along the lines that men should look out for any grown woman who still called her father "daddy."

Gentlemen, look out. This pretty little lady will be calling her father "daddy" for a while:

She requested curls for her big dancing date.

Major thanks to our little Lutheran school for giving my baby girl the best night ever. (Someone really should talk to this one's mother; she needs to learn to sit like a lady.)

She asked for pink lipstick too. 

And for days leading up to her big dance, she boogied to her own beat. She was singing "Let It Go" before letting go was what the cool kids were doing. She's got the beat, and she just wants to have fun.

I promise, they really do have a thing going on. She just wanted to dance. 

The sky was awake. She was awake. And it was time to dance. 

I can't wait until I have to spend way too much on a prom dress and make him pose with his little sister.  Actually, I can wait a few years. I didn't have to worry about her dad getting her home safely before curfew. 

We had our own date night (to soften the blow when he learned that sons and mommies couldn't go to the Frozen dance. He likes to let it go too.)

I used to question daddy-daughter dances. They seemed extravagant and unnecessary. I didn't have a daddy-daughter dance until my wedding. Until then, fishing trips with my belt-loops tied snugly to the truck bumper were just as fun as any princess dance could have been. (I love you too, Daddy.) 

I hear that Gigi partied hard. The word around the playground is that she shook her bootie for two hours straight. She came home that night, snuggled into the chair and told me, "I had fun. Can I have nay-nay?" She's a dancing queen and a daddy's girl, but at the end of the night, when her curls have fallen, and the lipstick has faded, she's still my baby. 

And didn't this baby have fun! (She has worn the crown everyday since the dance.)

P.S. To the moms who made it happen, thank you! The effort was well worth the memories you made for a whole lot of little girls. 

A Total Mommy Brag: Gigi Swims (With Video!)

A big thank you to LeAnne and Meghan with Let's All Swim--proof positive that great teachers don't need fancy equipment to make big things happen. After six months of lessons, my two-year old can swim! (Apologies for the quality--mommy's hands were a wee bit wobbly watching her toddler traverse the depths.)

The best part? She loves it. After swimming across the pool, she spent the rest of her lesson diving for rings,  and tonight, she taught her baby dolls how to swim in the tub.

The '80s Came Calling, and Other Major Minor Moments

Life can get you down if you don't make an everyday effort to find the fun in life's major minor moments. Mary Poppins used a spoonful of sugar to find the fun, and "Snap! the job's a game."  My spoonfuls of sugar happen to be my little ones. When I remember that they're kids, not miniature grown-ups, we have a lot of fun.

Sometimes, it's pretty easy to remember that they're not miniature grown-ups. A grown-up wouldn't bang her head on a wall because she didn't like her blue ruffled blouse. She wouldn't kick her mother because her skirt didn't twirl. Fashion is becoming increasingly important to my little woman. Yesterday, I went to check on her in the wee hours of the day because she was muttering. A close listen revealed her deepest, darkest fear: "I don't have any clothes!" Poor girl. She might have to go naked if I don't get the laundry put away.

Anger management is a big issue for us. A grown-up might tell you, "I'm mad at you!" But I really doubt a grown-up would then growl and fling her hand at you while shouting "Snowflake!" (Though I'd pay good money to watch an attorney throw a snowflake in court, just once.) Frozen is a really good movie. Gigi will tell you, "It's my bestest movie!"  I think there may be a few lines here and there that speak to empowering females. Gigi's takeaway from it? When mom ruins your fashion plans, you throw magic snowflakes. Sometimes I wish I was a kid too. I've had a few snowflake moments myself. RJ, on the other hand, takes out his aggression a little differently. "Mom, you know what I could do to you right now?" he spat at me from the tub. "What?" I sighed, preparing for battle. "I could give you a big kiss and a hug." He's a lover, not a fighter.

Gigi and I have been spending a lot of time together.

This outfit pleases her. No snowflakes were thrown. 

This outfit pleases her too, so do the pigtails. Her daddy makes her pretty happy too. 

Gardening pleases her. 

So does the library. 

What really makes her happy? A lunch date. She ordered her own chocolate milk and ice cream. Because, being a miniature grown-up sometimes makes her happy too. It's tough to remember that she's only two some days. She still has accidents and wants to snuggle on her mommy's shoulder at night. And the next day? She'll tell her bestie, "Honey, I can't hold your hand right now. I'm holding a napkin." Or, she'll let me know that her kitchen isn't stocked well: "Honey, I'm out of tea. You want coffee?" (She's well on her way to becoming a southern belle with all of her honey's, her twirl skirts, and her deep affection for all things buttered.)

With RJ, it's a little more difficult to remember that he's still a little boy. Sometimes, he's pretty deep, particularly at bedtime. Because really, when else would you tackle the chicken versus the egg? "Mom, how do chickens make eggs? 'Cause when you crack them, they break? And they were chickens? Do mom chickens put them back together?"

Then again, sometimes, he's just such a little boy it almost hurts to think of him growing up. He needs naps and chocolate milk. Kindergarten is exhausting. Last week, he told his swim teacher, "I'm tired today. I did a lot of bending. I dropped my pencil twice!" You've got to hold onto those pens and pencils folks--all of that bending can wear you out.

Tonight, I dressed them up like little grown-ups. It seemed like a fun idea.  It didn't go exactly as planned:

The '80s called. They want their hair back. 

Then again...this kid can pull off anything. Ladies, don't say I didn't warn you. 

Eventually, I'll find my way back to more interesting, more cohesive thoughts. (Those thoughts are being devoted to bar journal articles and the like these days.) For now, these are the major minor moments that help me remember that they're kids, not miniature grown-ups. 

Shawshank Sunshine and Rainbows

Spoiler alert. I finally watched The Shawshank Redemption. (Do I really have to give a spoiler alert for a film that's 20 years old?). But seriously, if you haven't seen the movie, don't read this post. Just don't do it. It's a fabulous film; you owe it to yourself to watch it with a clear mind. 

I'm serious. 

Don't read this post if you haven't seen the movie. I'm about to ruin it for you. 

You understand? 

Okay. 

Stop reading now. 

I avoided The Shawshank Redemption for years. When it was released in 1994, I was barely 17 years old--just old enough to legally see a rated "R" film, but not quite old enough to tell my parents I wanted to watch a rated "R" film. I led a sheltered life. Really sheltered. I went to a little Lutheran school where sex ed was taught by way of a little cartoon book entitled "How You Got to Be You--God's Plan." Seventh grade at public school was nearly death by embarrassment and humiliation. As for prison, punishment, and penalties? I knew that some kids had to go to traffic court for speeding tickets, but that if I had to go to traffic court for a speeding ticket, I could kiss the keys to my classic coupe goodbye. 

My favorite movies in 1994 ranged from The Little Mermaid to anything starring John Candy. (Who am I kidding? I still love Summer Rental, and The Great Outdoors will always be one fine piece of cinema in my opinion.). In the 8th grade, my bestie and I walked from my house to Hastings to rent Airplane! right before we flew to Washington D.C. We felt really naughty. It was rated PG. 

So, I missed The Shawshank Redemption when it hit theaters. I missed it on VHS and then again on DVD. At some point, it became the Shawshank Challenge. How long could I shelter myself from seeing this highly acclaimed prison film that was sure to be a tear jerker? I avoided it as long as I could--until curiosity and a down-turned mood finally got me. 

I volunteer about once a month at a legal clinic. Our clients have some sad stories. Last week, a young woman visited for advice. She was about 23 years old, and but for the braces that my parents gifted to an eighth grade girl's smile (thanks mom and dad), she could have been me--at least from an initial impression. Her case details shattered the sunshiney rainbow that I've learned follows me everywhere. She was visibly pregnant. She has two other children by two different fathers. She lives with "an older gentleman" who "wants to help her and pays her rent." She has not seen her 6 year old daughter in 4 years. She has no income and survives on the kindness of others. I later learned that the young woman had been shuffled through the foster care system for 9 years before she was adopted--and those years took their toll on her. She leads a rough life, and I wonder about her future and her children's. She made me wish I had won the lottery so that I could build a family shelter, feed her children, send her to school, and try to make a difference other than giving what turned out to be useless legal advice. 

This young woman's story made me gasp, "I used to think I was kind of worldly. I'm not! Sunshine and rainbows follow me everywhere!" 

I was in a funk, and I wanted a movie that would match my mood. So, after years of avoidance, I turned on Shawshank. I put the iPad in the pantry and got to work. (I don't have the attention span for movies--I have to work while I watch--my pantry is amazing right now, by the way.). Somewhere between Andy getting busy living instead of getting busy dying and Red not giving a sh*t about his parole, I was hooked. 

Brooks died. It was to be expected. This was a heartbreaker of a film, right? 

Then, they found the hole in Andy's wall. I watched, waiting for the guards to run him down, or for Red to be tortured for information. 

Red got out. I sorted cake mixes with tears in my eyes, waiting for the inevitable farewell to Red. 

But wait? What's this? There's money under a rock? Please Red, get on the bus!

Still, I waited. Surely I hadn't avoided a sunshiney, feel good prison break movie for 20 years?! It's not possible. And then it was. There they were. Sun on their faces, and nothing but clear blue skies and ocean waves. (Caveat: it's not all sunshine and rainbows--there's some pretty serious business in that movie; my tender preteen mind is still reeling.). 

Sunshine, rainbows. They found me again, and after a rough day. Sometimes, I feel like I'm a pre-teen girl. I just haven't grown up enough to really appreciate fine literature and films. Most critically acclaimed movies go unwatched (except Frozen, because, you know, Gigi). After my Shawshank sunshine, I think I'm going to revisit my personal film philosophy; and, in the meantime, you can find me snuggled in bed late at night just waiting for the moment when Andy sees Red on that beach.