snow

It's been a couple of weeks now, but it was a regular winter wonderland around here. In a stroke of genius-stupidity, I invited all my siblings over. It was stupidity because I invited them early in the day, and by the time they got here the roads were covered in snow and very icy. But it was genius because we had so much fun. We played games while Cate was napping. Cate was dying too make a snowman, so when she woke up we went out for a snow romp. The snow wasn't packing, so we didn't get a snowman, but we did have great fun with the snow fights. And my dear family was so sweet to entertain her even though many of them did not bring proper coats. They loaded up on all our extras and headed out anyway.

 I stinkin' love these people.

And don't worry, we got our snowman the next day.

We built him in the morning, and he was melted by naptime. That's how quickly the snow is gone in Texas, but we sure enjoyed it while it lasted.

my first 14k

Last weekend I ran my first race in preparation for the half-marathon. It was a 14k, which is about 8.7 miles. Every long run that I do from now until the half-marathon sets a new personal record for me. Each added mile is one more mile that I haven't ever run before. It's a pretty amazing feeling once it's done, but it's a little daunting when I set out.

I knew that it was a morning race in Februrary, so it was going to be cold. When I did my 7 miles the week before, I ran outside when it was about 40 degrees with a decent amount of wind so that I could prepare. Unfortunately for me, even that was not enough to prepare me to run in the freakin' blizzard that blew in over the weekend.

At racetime, it was 22 degrees with 15 mph winds. That's a windchill factor of about 7 degrees. SEVEN! I thought it was pretty crazy cold as we stood around in a huddle, but I had no idea how cold it would be once we started running against the wind.

First, a note on apparel. I hate to be cold, and I don't mind looking a little wonky. Yes, I wore 4 layers of clothing. Some of the hard-core runners had on shorts, Under Armour cold gear, and a hoodie. Here's what I wore:

That would be: silk thermals, Under Armor cold gear, a hoodie, a jacket, and a toboggin. Overkill? Perhaps. It did get a little musty in there. But hell, I'd take musty over ice-covered anyday.

You think I'm exaggerating when I say ice-covered, but I'm not. The four miles against the wind were absolutely awful. I think if Cory would have slowed down when he drove by and honked (really!), I would have hopped in the car and gone back home to climb into my toasty bed. During these miles, it was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other. My muscles were tense and angry. A girl who started running beside me had a bottle of Gatorade that was freezing into slush. I could feel ice crystals on my lips.

When we turned the corner, it got a little better. The wind was still blowing at our sides, but Mom, Cate, and Cory were cheering me on and keeping the stray dogs away. I ran harder because I knew they were watching. Finally, we turned again and the wind was at our backs. Hallelujah! I started to warm up, and I fell into my stride. I would never have thought the last few miles would be easier than the first. I was just so grateful to be running with the wind. The girl beside me asked me to hold her frozen Gatorade; that's the first reason I knew we were now BFFs.

The last .7 mile was against the wind again. I had fallen behind my BFF because I stopped at a water station, but she waved me ahead to catch up with her. Somehow, I picked up my speed. We struggled against the wind, and she yelled at the two spectators that we saw, "Where's the finish-line, dammit?!" That's the second reason I knew she was my BFF. We crossed together, and fell into a triumphant embrace. We did it!

I tried to turn my music off and stop the timer on my phone, but my iPhone was frozen. Cory hugged me and took me inside to warm up. He looked so proud of me. I don't think I'll forget that.

One hour, twenty-eight minutes. Not too shabby, for a first-timer.

yoga with a side of delusion

Six weeks of half marathon training, and I've got to say I'm a little sick of it. I wrote this cute little post about how I was so excited to be getting healthier, and how it was kind of funny that I hadn't lost any weight.
It ain't funny anymore.
I've alternated between dispair and anger at my layer of fluff around the middle, but it doesn't budge. It does bulge, but it doesn't budge. Hmm.
Anyway, I'm not giving up. The goal is still running a half marathon, not losing weight. I'm making a few changes in my eating patterns and workout schedule that will hopefully give me a boost.

So my friend Evan is really hip and cool and tiny, and she recommended on a couple of different occasions that I try a centergy class, which is basically coreographed yoga. I have this preconceived notion about yoga: that it's for really hip and/or cool and/or tiny people. Like Evan. And I'm self-aware enough to know that those words don't necessarily describe me. Or, at least I thought I was.

Ok, so I'm in the yoga classroom which has floor to ceiling mirrors on every wall. I have a love-hate relationships with said mirrors. I don't exactly enjoy being able to see all the bulges and fluffy bits as I work out, but it does help with form. Usually it's my back that's the problem. The instructor's back is as straight as that nerdy kid's in class who thinks if she raises her hand as high as she possibly can and wiggles her fingers that the teacher will call on her for the answer. And even though I was that kid, my back doesn't look like that. Go figure.
So anyway, since I'm new to yoga, I was checking the mirrors a lot. And that cute girl with the pixie haircut and the shoulder tattoo, too. She knew what she was doing. Probably because she was pretty hip, cool, and tiny. I'm toward the back of the classroom, trying to be as invisible as you can be in a room full of mirrors. When I check the front mirror, though, I'm pleasantly surprised. I'm lookin' pretty good. Look how strong my legs are...and my arms are looking sculpted. When I check the mirror closest to me, I just try not to laugh at my flying legs and strange poses. But that front mirror...Look at my tiny waist, I think. I look so thin! I'm going to do yoga everyday! Or walk around in warrior's pose or something! This is excellent. I am excellent! I'm really good at this. Even my hair looks nice while exercising...that never happens. Oh wait. I don't work out with my hair down.
Yeah, the girl I was admiring in the mirror was NOT me. At some point, probably when I was helicoptering my arms trying to keep my balance while I stood on one foot, someone slipped in behind me who was wearing almost the exact same thing I was. Her hair was the same color and length as mine, only she didn't have hers pulled into a ponytail with a head wrap. She was a little to the left of me, and there was a giant fan blocking my view of myself from the front mirror. Geeze.

So yeah, maybe I'm a little delusional, but I can't shake the feeling that I'm really good at yoga. I think I'll go again very soon and pretend to be someone else.

jammies

My girl is very rarely cold. I think the standard rule for dressing children for playtime in cold weather is to dress them in one more layer than what you wear. But I do the opposite. Usually I wear one more layer than she does.

Anyway, today she was eating a well-balanced lunch of yogurt and milk and decided she was cold. She didn't want a jacket. She didn't even want a blanket. She wanted these beauties.

And did I mention that while I was trying to zip them up, I unintentionally toppled her over and she twacked her forehead on the ground? Whoops. Sweet thang still managed a smile for me (after she was done crying for her Daddy for awhile, of course).

Then when I put her down for a nap, I heard some rustling about in her room. I just let her be, hoping that she'd fall asleep. Later I walked down the hall and panicked when the door to her room was wide open but she was not in her bed! A quick glance around the corner and I found her here:

Not a bad napping spot, I suppose. I've napped in that chair quite often myself. Plus, the only evidence of misbehavior I found was a half-eaten tube of chapstick.

Parenting win, I'd say.

discipline...it's a four letter word

So this whole mom thing... sometimes I just don't feel very good at it. It's been a rough couple of weeks. Our plumbing went out (has been in the process of going out since September) and we had to have the whole sewer line replaced. Additionally, for no apparent reason, Cate's just been grumpier than usual. It seems like we go through seasons, really tough stressful ones and really beautiful soul-nursing ones. And honestly, I don't know if they're caused by her or me. I tend to blame it on her, but something inside nudges me to think it's me. Hmph.

During the tougher seasons, it's so hard to figure the discipline thing out. I never know which route to take. Each situation necessitates a different response, and people who deal with disciplining children (parents, teachers, daycare employees, etc.) have to be very intuitive, responsive, and perceptive, I think. Let me give you a run-down of my morning and all the different techniques I floundered with.

Cate asked for more milk, so I opened her cup and began pouring. She did the ol' flail and wail right there in the kitchen chair. Wait, what? What just happened here?
"Stop. Stoooooop. What's wrong?" I ask.
"I wanna drink the milk!" (more wailing and flailing)
I'm already a little exasperated, but I'm trying to be patient (technique 1). "That's what I was doing. I was getting you milk."
"No, the old milk!"
So, she wanted to drink that last bit in the bottom of the sippy cup before I added the fresh milk. But it was too late. I had already tainted the "old milk" with approximately 2 mL of fresh milk. Meltdown ensued.
I tried to ignore (technique 2) the fit, but her screaming was starting to scare E, and she was moving M's chair with her foot as she flailed about, making it hard for him to eat. After listening and ignoring, and supressing my boiling blood, I removed her from the situation (technique 3) by telling her she could go to her room and come back when she's calm.
She obviously thought that if she did what I said, she would have lost, so she went to the bathroom and shut herself inside. After about 15 more minutes of screaming, I went to check on her. She's laying on the bath mat, pants around her ankles, crying. (She had used the potty, but apparently found the task of pulling her pants up to be too daunting considering her emotional state. Plus, she probably knew it would bother me.) I just feel weird about her being all bare-bottomed with the boys there, so I tell her she must pull them up this instant. (Talking firmly, technique 4). I don't know why I picked this battle to fight. It seemed important at the time. When she refused (and continued to wail) I pulled them up myself. To which she graciously responded by kicking me repeatedly.
Sigh. Here's where it gets ugly.
I pulled her up into my arms, and she tried to wiggle free. I spanked her bottom (technique 5) and said, "We don't kick each other." (I know... the irony wasn't lost on me). I plopped her in bed and told her not to get up until she was ready to stop crying and be nice. So she continued to cry.
To keep myself from dissolving into tears, I had to call Dani, just so she can say, "I know, I've been there, I'm sorry, eat some chocolate." She always makes me feel better. Finally, Cate came back into the living room. She wasn't exactly crying, but she wasn't a ball of sunshine either. If I tried to talk with her or even look at her, she'd make a loud EHNT! noise just because she knows I don't like it. I decided it was best to not make matters worse, so I didn't tell her to stop. I just gave her my mom look (technique 6) and kept playing with the other two kids.
Finally, she came over and started pushing my arm. She was being kind of rough, but I think she was just trying to get back close to me and wasn't sure how to do it. I ignored (technique 2) her jeering looks and less than gentle love-taps, and let her sit in my lap. I know that feeling. Sometimes you want to hit someone and make them hug you at the same time. Just ask my husband.
Finally, we were getting somewhere, I distracted her (technique 7) by asking for help with the shape-sorter. When she finally calmed down, I gave her some love. (technique 8) That's my favorite technique.
So I don't know. I don't know if I did it right; I don't know how to do it right. Kids are so adaptive that as soon as you think you've got it figured out, they change on you. You try so hard to avoid things that will cause a meltdown, make sure they're fed and napped, get the appropriate exercise, not too much tv, and the right amount of play dates and then here you are, trying to figure out how the hell you were supposed to know that they wanted to drink old milk before you put the new milk in.
And you know, as I go back and reread this post, I guess maybe it is about me after all. Because the meltdown didn't hurt anyone. She's ok now (and asleep, praise the Lord!) and the other two kids barely even seemed to notice it was happening. So I guess maybe the question is whether or not I'll let it ruin my peace today. Will that hour of stress ruin the remaining twenty-three? Maybe I'll choose not.
Thanks for listening.

There's a demon in my bathroom scale.

There has to be. That's the only logical explanation.

I have been working out like I have never worked out before. Dani and I are training for a half-marathon, the Rock and Roll Dallas. I am really excited about it because "Run a Marathon" is on the bucket list, and this is a step in the right direction. There have been times in my life where I was a runner, where I could run on a consistent basis. But there has never been a time when I felt like an athlete. But now I'm going to weight lifting classes and riding the stationary bike on my cross training days. I'm doing long runs on the weekends and working on my pace during the week. I'm starting to feel like... that a-word above. It's crazy.

But the scale refuses to budge.

I am a good seven pounds over what I like to think of as my "normal" weight, and twelve over where I want to be. I have been working out at least 5 times a week for the past three weeks and counting calories. And that [choose your own expletive] scale even dared to edge up on me today.

It's infuriating.

However....I am not going to give up. I am so glad that I have a goal other than the weight loss, because if that had been my only goal, I would have thrown my hands up and drowned my lack of progress in pizza and wine. But there has been progress. It just hasn't shown up on the bathroom scale.

-I feel better, stronger. My muscles feel more defined, and my butt doesn't jiggle quite as much. My pace is getting better, and I'm adding a mile to my long run every week.

-My daughter sees a woman who excercises. When we see someone running at the park, she asks, "Is that you, Mama?" She likes to pretend she's doing squats with a tupperware lid.

-My marriage is better. Even though spending time at the gym means we don't spend quite as much time together, it has made that time together even better. Cory has always been the one who inspires me to exercise, and now I get to do that for him. We're both happier when we're together because we feel like we've accomplished something outside of our normal routine.

-I have a lovely running partner, who makes those long runs fly by and keeps me motivated during the week.

-I'm finally getting it, that little addiction to the runner's high. Today is supposed to be a rest day, but the weather is glorious, and I keep thinking maybe I'll just slip outside for a little jog. It's crazy how working out went from being a burden to a pleasure. (Plus, the whole gym membership thing is fabulous.[Thanks, Mom!] They watch Cate, she gets some playtime, and I get some precious alone time.)

So hopefully the weight loss will come in time. In the meantime, I'll relish the other victories.

(But if you know of a good exorcist, send em my way.)

pic credit

in defense of santa

I have to write this down. I'm delighted that you're reading it too, but I'm writing it down for me. Because every year I have to go through this, and re-decide what it is I believe about Christmas. I think I usually come around to the same thing, so I thought I'd save myself the trouble and write it all down this year. Then I can skip the tears and stress next year and get right to the celebrating.
I hate to admit that, if I'm honest, holidays equal stress for me. There has rarely, if ever, been a Christmas season that did not land me in tears at some point. I love, love Dani's post about Christmas time in a divorced family. It's spot on.
And then there are posts that land me in tears. It happens every. single. year. Like this one. When I read it, I absolutely agreed with what she had to say. Ugh, the consumerism, the out of control Santa-fest, the fact that Christmas should be about Jesus. I get it. I agree with it. One particularly poignant line asked how, in the minds of our children, could Jesus compete with Santa? I so agree. I felt so guilty over how much we spend on Christmas while so many in the world are suffering that I cried when I put up the Christmas tree. And then I cried while walking through the aisles of Target. It was awful. I swore off Santa.
And then I came back around to him. Because whenever I think of the holidays, and how I'll stress over the coming one, I think back to the time when I was little, watching the news on Christmas Eve and hearing the weather man say he'd spotted Santa's sleigh on the horizon. I remember lying awake in bed and thinking every creak of the house was a reindeer hoof. I remember opening gifts with my cousins, playing board games with my siblings, and wondering just how it was that Santa always knew exactly what I wanted. It was magical.
And while I hear people rant about how wrong it is to lie to your kids, I honestly don't have a problem with it. To me, it wasn't lying. It was this huge magical story that everyone was in on. Kinda like Harry Potter. (wink) Some people say that when they discovered Santa wasn't real, they thought that God wasn't real. I say that believing in Santa helped me believe in God, in miracles, in magic. I love that feeling that there's more to life than what's right in front of us, than what we can see. And as adults, we don't get that feeling often enough. So don't take it away from me at Christmas.
So my plan is to talk to Cate about Jesus every chance I get. Not just at Christmas, but always. She'll learn about Santa on her own. There are movies and songs, and trips on the Polar Express with my aunt. This year, when she wakes up on Christmas morning, there will be 2 gifts for her. It really doesn't matter to me if she thinks they're from us or from Santa. Then she'll be bombarded with gifts from other family members. And we're all going to love it.
I hope she'll learn that Christmas is about magic. It's about Jesus and family. It's about giving gifts. It's about togetherness and laughter. And if that magic includes Santa, well, I'm okay with that.
It's not very neat. It's not "We go all out at Christmas" and it's not "We don't do Santa." It's somewhere in between, so it's bound to get messy. (I never have been good at drawing a line in the sand.) I'd love to hear everyone's ideas and traditions. My ideas so far are: bake a birthday cake for Jesus, adopt an angel tree kid, buy a goat (0r some other animal) for a Worldvision family. What do you do with your family to keep them focused on Jesus and giving?