the Mother Runner

I had hoped that by a month after Boston I’d be good as new. Well, I hoped that by a week after Boston I’d be good as new, but I realized that wasn’t going to happen by Mile 3 of 26.2. And then I hoped that if I just took it slow, rolled my IT band a lot, and only went a few miles at a time, I’d be fine. And then thought I was fine, so I’d speed things up, or wear high heels, or do some other silly thing and, whoops! re-injure my IT band. Again.

The good news is that it seems to be a 2 steps forward 1 step back kind of thing. Or maybe 1 1/2 steps forward, 1/2 step back? I’m not quite sure of the ratio. What I do know is that is that I’m able to run just a little farther before I start feeling my knee again, and it feels “normal” just a little more quickly each time.

After last Tuesdays’ 5-miler, I felt good enough to attempt a 7-miler on Saturday. Or maybe I was just so inspired by the half-marathon taking place on my running route that I couldn’t help myself? Anyway all went well . . . until the next day when I randomly had pain shooting up my leg. It was as bad as it ever was and I nearly swore off running at all for an entire week (!!!) . . . but then I took a nap, got a really great night’s sleep and felt next-to-new by Monday morning. (Seriously, at some point Little Miss woke up and cried and I didn’t hear a thing. Micah brought her into bed and I had no idea she was there until she started crawling on my head in the morning. It was fabulous.)

And once again, I am seriously tempted to declare myself cured since I’ve been pain free for over 24-hours. But I’m beginning to see the pattern here. And I think it’s time I really give my knee a rest. For more than a couple of days.

Sigh.

Thankfully that does not preclude me and Micah getting up at 6:00 to get our trash kicked by burpees and mountain climbers. The good news is that our iron strength workout is not as hard as it was the first time. I can almost do 3 sets of burpees before my jump looks more like a shrug – but that doesn’t mean that I like it. Still, it’s better than nothing. And I’m hopeful that it’ll keep me from entirely falling apart before our half-marathon in less than 3 weeks. Maybe it’ll even help that knee of mine heal for real.

Maybe it’s that school – or the prospect of school – is once again on the horizon, but I’m feeling the need to build train tracks and read stories and invite the boys into the kitchen to help out more often. (The girl needs no invitation, and she finds her own ways to help – most of which involve pointing out where I have failed to child-proof my home.) Time is running out. Manchild will *fingers crossed* be at school next year. It’s time to slow down and savor the days we have left a little bit more.

Or maybe I’m simply tired of feeling stressed and I’m happy to put my projects in the back of my mind and play. Really play. Like, yes that hardwood floor is hot lava and there’s no way I’m touching it kind of play. So we’re playing more.

And we’re growing, too. Little Miss has taken a couple of steps here and there, and it’s exciting to get down on the rug with her and encourage her to try again. Squish is showing interest in reading, and it has been amazing to sit down with him and help him sound out words. I never got to do that with Manchild, and while it can be a little tedious, it is always a thrill to hear him make the connection that the sounds he is saying actually make a word.

I don’t know how long this stage will last. But I do know that this is what I’ve been trying to do for a long time. Play with my kids, be with my kids, hug my kids. Give them my time and attention. Listen to them, laugh with them, look them in the eye. And then, when they are asleep, switch gears and do my own thing. It’s so much harder to do than I expected. But it’s the habit I want to be in: when my kids are home, so am I. Not just in the house, but present, available, listening.

This week on Babble:

Do you shop when you’re hungry? You may want to re-think that strategy.

Believe it or not, you don’t need to go to the gym to get a good workout.

Eating disorders are serious business. Here’s what you need to know.

Confused about whether white vegetables count when you’re trying to “eat your colors”? Wonder no more.

I crossed the finish line of my third marathon exhausted, sick, and defeated. I’d run a personal record, but I’d failed to achieve my goal. It had not been a good race. I’d walked much of the last six miles and had grown more and more discouraged as people on the course tried to encourage me not to give up.

Of course I hadn’t given up. I was still on the course, wasn’t I? Still heading toward the finish line? I resented their insinuation that I wasn’t giving it all I had. (Marathons sometimes bring out the less-charitable or clear-thinking side of me.)

But even after I pushed through the pain and discouragement and finished the race, I felt as though I had failed. So what if I’d finished? So what if it was the fastest marathon I’d ever run? I could have done better. I should have done better.

I stewed about it for a day or so, dwelling on all the things that went wrong and generally making myself miserable. Fail, fail, fail.

It wasn’t the first time I was in a situation where even though I’d done as well as I could have done under the circumstances I felt like I was falling short. I was questioning every move I made and felt lost and confused. It felt a lot like being a first-time mom.

For a long time, I felt like there was no way to win at being a mom. Every day I wondered if I was doing things right because it sure didn’t feel like it. My son was so young that I spent a lot of my time tied to the house, waiting for him to get up from a nap so we could go out, or putting him to sleep for the next nap. It was disorienting for me. Shouldn’t I have been busy doing something? Shouldn’t I have been contributing to the world? And I know I wasn’t alone in those feelings. My friends and I would sometimes feel each other out (“So, what do you do all day?”), certain that they had some insight that would help the rest of us figure out what we were doing wrong, why we felt like failures even though we were doing exactly what we’d set out to do.

There were no easy answers, no switches that went on and illuminated the solution to the problem. Instead it was a slow realization that being a full-time mom is just a different kind of work than I’d ever done – much more emotional – and a slow adaptation to finding things to keep my body and mind as busy and active as I was used to them being.

I look back and can see that I wasn’t failing. I was doing the best I knew how to do. But I would have benefited from some additional insights about failure: like, failure is not in the result of the situation but in how we react to it. I may have felt bored and lost as a new mom, but I would only be failing if I allowed those feelings to prevent me from taking care of my son and myself. I could have reached out to friends in the same situation, pursued hobbies, or immersed myself in the quiet time and savored those moments. (But I would have had to know then what I know now: that kids really do grow up, they become more demanding, they multiply, and I’ll never have a quiet moment to myself again.)

I’ve also learned that failure is in the eye of the beholder. While I felt like I was doing something wrong as a new mom, I looked at others in my situation and thought that they had it together, they were doing it right, they were succeeding. And I found that they felt the same about me. We treated each other like we were succeeding. We looked to each other for strength, and that trust gave us back the strength we were looking for.

I did, eventually, become more comfortable in what motherhood is, and more confident that I was doing it right. I was doing the best I knew how to do and there is no shame in that, even on a bad day. Even on bad days, I’m able to see things from a different perspective, be reminded of what my strengths are, and given motivation to make a change, to make things different, better, more successful the next day.

That “failed” race was just one of those bad days. I realized some mistakes I made and I was humbled. And as soon as I could, I made plans to run another race and give myself another chance to do as well as I thought I could.

And I did. And I will. Again and again.

I decided to wear the anti-mom outfit on Mother’s Day. You know, the kind with the super cute skirt that restricts my stride just enough to make it slightly annoying – but completely bearable because, well, it’s super cute. And the heels that I can walk well enough in, but only because I brought another pair to change into when my feet started hurting. And the blouse that makes me think for a minute or two before I can decide on the best way to nurse my baby while still wearing it. That kind of outfit.

I felt great in it. I really did. Even as I tottered down 2 flights of stairs with a baby on my hip to dispose of a dirty diaper, my thought was totally worth it. If I have to endure Mother’s Day, I might as well do it feeling like a woman and not a frumpy mess.

But I had second thoughts about it being worth it later in the day, long after the heels had been put away and the skirt discarded in favor of something more “family friendly,” when my IT band let me know it didn’t appreciate my wardrobe. This was especially discouraging because I’d been on a 4 mile (very very very very very rainy: see photo above) run earlier in the week in which I had hardly felt it at all. And after walking for miles on Saturday and test driving a couple of bikes with no pain, I had almost convinced myself that I was healed and good to resume normal training.

I was wrong. I’m not exactly back to square one, but . . . sigh . . . I’m still injured. I’m swearing off heels for a while. And buddying up with my waterbottle/roller. And getting up with Micah to get our trash kicked by jump squats and burpees. And still running when my mental health depends on it. Like it did this morning.

I’ve got 4 weeks until that half-marathon. The only goal right now is to be pain-free at the start line.

The Little Miss wants to walk. She stands. She reaches out. She leans and leans, and then . . . she falls. Right into our hands. Once or twice she has picked up a foot, but she hasn’t quite gotten it placed before . . . “Timber!” the mighty tree is down.

It’s exciting. Her brothers want her to do it again and again. They want to time her to see how long she can stand. They ask us to help her up so she can keep trying. And she’s a good sport about it. She’ll stand, she’ll reach, and she’ll sit down when she’s tired. And then she’ll crawl away when she’s done. She seems to have a sense that there is more she will be able to do, but it will come in its own time and that’s okay. There’s really no reason to rush.

In fact, there is no reason to rush anything. It will come. We will get there. Manchild will go to school. Squish will learn to read and write and listen. Little Miss will walk and speak and sleep all night long in her own bed.

I know that. I do. But sometimes I get a little anxious because I forget that things change and they change quickly.

It’s months before we really need to think about re-arranging our apartment so the kids all sleep in one room, but I keep imagining which piece of furniture will go where, how we’ll make things bright and homey . . . . I’m still new at this writing gig and I’m already trying not to despair over never ever having a relaxing evening again (because it will come – someday I’ll be able to write during the day) . . . . I’m looking to the end when I’ve only just begun.

I think it’s time to look a little bit more to Little Miss for some encouragement. It’s fine to stretch, it’s good to take a chance, it’s helpful and strengthening to reach for things. And it’s also good to have a vision, an idea of where you’re going. If you don’t get there the first time, that’s okay. Someone will catch you. And then you keep trying. You’ll get there. No rush.

And this week on Babble:

An elementary school in Queens goes all-vegetarian at lunch time.

Playing sports could help prevent bullying.

What you should know before you decide to start a detox diet.

And some thoughts about my body image insecurities and what I want to teach my daughter in two parts: part 1, part 2.

“Is everyone who lives in Ignorance like you?” asked Milo. 

“Much worse,” he said longingly. “But I don’t live here. I’m from a place very far away called Context.”

“Don’t you think you should be getting back?” suggested the boy, holding one arm up in front of him.

“What a horrible thought.” The bird shuddered. “It’s such an unpleasant place that I spend almost all my time out of it.”

 –The Phantom Tollbooth by Norman Juster

The third child is the one that usually gets them.

“Oh! I didn’t even see her!”

Or “Three?” then looking from the two boys to the baby I’m wearing in the carrier, “At least you got your girl.”

They seem surprised, then happy for me. Happy that I got my girl and I can be done with childbearing and crowding the sidewalk with my offspring. These are usually quick exchanges on the street, but even so, I sense beneath their goodwill, there is some relief that along with two boys I have a girl, and that because I have a girl, I have closure. Three kids is just about the limit of acceptability here in New York. Three is enough, three is nearly too much.

These are strangers, so I let them be happy for me: that I got my girl, that I have two lovely boys, that I can be “done.”

But sometimes I am a little more forthcoming and willing to rock their worlds. If someone asks, for example, if we are having any more, I’ll tell them that I think so. After all, every girl needs a sister, right? And when they seem surprised, taken aback, sometimes I’ll let them in on a little secret: I have 11 siblings. Three kids does not seem like a lot of kids to me. Even in less than 750 square feet. Even on public transportation. Even in tiny grocery stores where the boys chase each other and we can barely navigate the stroller through the aisles.

I have to remind myself often that it is merely the place that I am standing that causes people to look twice and to question my sanity, to push for a promise to stop having kids, or to tell me to “go on with you and your bad self.” I’m in New York City where most women of my age and education level are getting comfortable in careers. They are dating and staying out late, bar-hopping and night-club crawling.

I, too, am hopping, but usually on one foot, in competition with my 6- and 3-year-old to see who can do it the longest. I’m crawling, but mostly just to get the wipes on the other side of the room, or to meet my 9-month-old daughter halfway. And I do stay up late, but it has more to do with my baby’s midnight feeding than with hanging out with friends or meeting guys.

So I can excuse those who are puzzled by my presence – and the presence of my entourage – in this setting. However, I did not set out to be an object of curiosity or the recipient of bewildered expressions. In fact, when I realized what I had done, I was as surprised as everyone else. Oh! I guess 23 was kind of young to have a baby. And maybe it would have been nice to have had some time in New York City without having a child to tend. Ah, well, what am I going to do about it now?

But where I come from, and in suburbs all over the country, three kids is normal and four kids don’t merit a second glance. There are plenty of well-educated women who have not yet turned 30 who have mastered diaper changing and potty training and even school pick-up and drop-off.

Maybe one day, I will be one of them. For now, however, I am happy where I am. Happy to be out of context and causing people to look twice and to wonder if they’re all mine. Happy to hop and crawl my way through this city with my kids at my side.

My water bottle has been a little bit of a lifesaver this week. Not for it’s helpfulness in keeping me hydrated, of course, but for it’s cylindrical shape and it’s hardness. Stainless steal is the way to go, I believe, when the foam roller just isn’t cutting it any more. Who needs a rolling pin when they have a Klean Kanteen?

So, no, my IT band has not entirely healed. But it feels pretty good most of the time. I took most of the week off, once again, but went out for a 5-miler on Friday just because my brother was in town and could watch the kids while I went out in the middle of the day. I had to take advantage of the free babysitting somehow. And then on Saturday I went out again. Actually, we went out. The whole fam. It was our inaugural family run of the season and while it was a little slow than usual while we figured out how Manchild was going to handle riding along on his bike, we did it and that’s what matters.

We celebrated our accomplishment by playing Ultimate with some friends in the park. I have very little experience with team sports, and I’m never very comfortable out on the field. It always takes me a while to 1. work up the courage to get out there and 2. realize that nobody cares how often I drop passes as long as I’m making an effort. And once I do that, I generally have a good time. By the time we had to quit, I was feeling pretty good about life. I’m not quite ready to say it was anything like intervals or speedwork of any kind, but it was fun and it was different – a needed break from thinking about pace and mileage.

This week, I haven’t been worried about running much in general. I’ve been having fun, enjoying the weather, and letting someone else set the pace for a while. 

New York City in the spring. Always worth the wait. After months of bundling up and staying close to home, of keeping our heads down and pushing our way through the snow and cold, we are unwrapping ourselves, exploring areas we were once familiar with, opening up to see how the winter has reshaped our world.

My brother is in town and we’ve been walking around the city, giving him the grand tour, wandering aimlessly and wondering at how we haven’t seen that before or noticed those buildings. There’s an old Heinz factory a block away from our apartment. How have I never seen it? There are three new restaurants on Franklin Ave. At least, I think they’re new. I walk down that street all the time. How did I not see them before? Just a new awakening, I guess. A new awareness of the possibilities now that the world is blooming and everything’s coming up roses.

Even the things that never seem to change are shiny and new again. Like Manchild’s love of outer space. We went to the Natural History Museum and circled the Hayden Sphere twice trying to grasp the relative size of things. When we came home Manchild recited the whole scale: “If the Hayden Sphere is the rhinovirus, then this model is a hydrogen atom.”

“If the Hayden sphere is a red blood cell, then this model would be the rhinovirus.”

“If the Hayden sphere is a raindrop, then this model would be a red blood cell.”

And all the way up to the Milky Way, the local group of galaxies, the super cluster of galaxies, the universe.

Amazing, and somewhat incomprehensible.

Funny that even though I’ve lived with Manchild’s fascination for a couple of years now, it still surprises me how engrossed he becomes, how well he retains those facts, how it becomes a part of him.

Or how I’m always taken off guard by how quick the Little Miss can be to grab things and tear them apart. Or by Squish’s silly sense of humor.

Just like I am by how new and fresh and perfect and energizing New York City can be in the spring, when it unfolds itself again and we open up to meet it.

And here’s what I’ve been writing about on Babble:

Our pediatrician is retiring! We wish there were a thousand more just like him!

Can you have a “normal” childhood when your mom has cancer?

Nutrition labels: maybe someday they’ll be a little more helpful.

How far would we go to solve the obesity epidemic?

Too frazzled to think clearly? Take some time to practice some self-affirmations.

I read somewhere recently that “heart healthy hummus is taking over the world.” Or something like that. I think that may have been a small exaggeration. Micah, who read the headline too, was quick to point out that the cookie section of the store is probably still bigger than the hummus section of the store. The chip section, too. And the ice cream section. And . . .  well, most sections of the store are still bigger than the hummus section.

While we’re discussing hummus, can we discuss whether or not “hummus” by definition excludes dips not made with chickpeas? I admit that I don’t know the answer to that, although I think it is understood that hummus=chickpeas. However, that is not going to stop me from trying to pass this edamame dip off to you as “hummus.” It’s green and pretty and tasty. And it is made, mostly, with the same ingredients you would find in chickpea hummus except, significantly, chickpeas.

Actually, I put an Asian spin on the version I made the other day. I think that is fair game. I thought it was a good idea before I made it and a great idea after I made it. I spread it on some okonomiyaki (Japanese cabbage pancake), but I think it would go well with just about anything. Veggies. Crackers. Sandwiches. Yum.

Maybe, just maybe, this kind of thing will be a step in hummus actually taking over the world.

Edamame Hummus

This makes a very thick hummus. Which is how I like it. If you want to thin it out, increase the tahini and water to 1/3 cup.

1 12-oz. package frozen shelled edamame, thawed

1/4 cup tahini

1/4 cup water

2 garlic cloves, minced or pressed

1/2 tsp. salt

2-3 T. soy sauce (to taste)

1/2-1 tsp. toasted sesame oil (to taste)

3 T. olive oil

Put all the ingredients in a blender and blend until smooth. Taste and add more soy sauce and/or sesame oil if you’d like. Refrigerate for about 1/2 an hour before serving to take the edge (or “spiciness” as Manchild likes to say) off the garlic. Serve with dip-ables or spread on whatever you’d like.

The Little Miss cries and screams and weeps and wails if ever I leave the room or close a door between us or put her down or walk past her. But if I pick her up or wear her in the carrier, she pinches and scratches and pokes my neck and chest until it is striped with her “love.” Just got to make sure I’m still here, I guess. Just needs to be sure that I’m not just a dream.

Manchild peppers me with questions, reminds me of days and events gone by, begs to play games, wonders when we’re going to do that one thing that he really wants to do. And if I continue to answer his questions, he’ll continue to ask them. We’ll go in circles all day if he wants to.

And then there is Squish. The middle child. Squish, who tries so hard to love on his little sister but only manages to make her cry. Squish, who wants to keep up with his big brother but usually ends up knocked on the ground, having bonked his head or fallen off the couch or tripped on his own feet.

He demands my attention too, of course. He is the one who persists in helping me in the kitchen, who hangs around until I relent with my line that the most helpful thing he can do is go play in the other room. He’ll drag in a chair push it around to see what I’m doing until I finally give him the teaspoon and let him scoop the baking powder himself.

Still, he’s easy to overlook at this stage in our life. It’s easy to say that I need to take care of his sister right now, or to laugh at his jokes without actually hearing them. It’s easy to be impatient with him for not doing the things that I know he can do by himself but doesn’t – because he wants my help with them.

Maybe that’s why he’s been crying for us at night, when the other two are asleep, begging for us to put his blanket back on him. Maybe that’s the only time he has our undivided attention.