52 Weeks of Brotherhood, Week 24

This picture is why we wake up at 2:30 in the morning, shuffle children to the bathroom, herd them out to the garage, lift them gently into car seats and set off before the clock reads three o’clock. This picture is why we go gently but speedily into the darkness of night, making our way carefully through the fog until the sky begins to lighten, chasing the clouds away somewhere deep in the mountains of West Virginia and Virginia. This picture is why we hand one brother a bag to throw up in, why we grab his hand and race out of the breakfast restaurant so he can puke in the parking lot, why we get a sand bucket out of the sand toy bag, why we unbuckle and lean over into the back seat to help him throw up while going 70 miles per hour, why we stop at the next exit and wash out the bucket with a bottle of water, why we stop at the next exit after that to buy some chewable Dramamine at a rest stop. This picture is why we giggle as the Dramamine doesn’t immediately work and that brother begins to talk a mile a minute about how good he feels and all the things he’s going to do at the beach and, omg! yay! And then, then quiet descends over the vehicle and the two adults go back to silence, to listening to music little ears might not need to hear. This picture is why adults decide to forgo their own lunch in favor of continuing onward without waking the sleeping, non-puking brothers. “Let’s just get to the beach.”

And so we do.

Shortly after arriving, then men folk go grocery shopping — because the women folk like too many shiny things to do so in a timely manner. The boys beg for a bit of time at the beach, and so we lather and spray and smear and rub on lotion and sunblock and face stick and anything and everything SPF to protect our pale, sensitive skin from the sun’s rays — the same sun we’ve been longing to sit and play and splash and run and laugh and read under since we left it behind last year. We gather up chairs and toys and floaties and flip flops and slowly, because of the weight of all we carry, but quickly, because of excitement, make our way down the boardwalk just outside our front door. The boys’ toes sink into the sand and the chatter becomes more animated, voices mixing and crossing over one another. “Oh! I forgot how much I like this sand!” “Oh! It’s so warm!” “We’re gonna dig the biggest hole!” “And a tunnel!” “And a tunnel!” “Did you say tunnel?” We walk straight down to an unoccupied spot, one waiting for us and our large group — yet another joy of vacationing in such an uncommercial place.

And they run.

They run toward the water before I can set down my own chair, before I can take two deep breaths of the salty sea air. They skip run jump twirl yell to the edge of the water, the last trickles of a wave licking at their little boy toes. “Oh, it’s not too cold!” I set everything down and fish my waterproof-protected phone-slash-camera out of my bag and walk down to the edge to join them. The water washes over my tired, travel weary feet; a shiver runs up my spine. “You guys are liars.” They giggle. “Oh, mommy, it’s not that bad.” Another wave washes over and I concede. They are right. You get used to it quickly as it fills your soul with memory, your body relaxing with each and every touch of a wave.

They want to jump waves and swim and run. “Wait, you guys. I want a picture before you get all wet and salty and sandy.”

No argument. They stand next to each other, throw an arm around the shoulder of their brother, and look at me, smiles stretching the expanse of their little faces. I crouch down and snap a quick shot. They’re off before I can check to make sure the results of my quick capture meet my expectations. It does. And more.

What I Wore Sunday, June 16, 2013

• Black and beige striped top: Maurices
• Khaki Twill Shorts: JC Penney
• Black cami
• Black Knotted Wedge Heels: Maurices
• Gold Leaf Necklace: Lia Sophia
• Navy Blue Ruffle Skirted Bathing Suit: Monokinisuits.com (PS: $37.99)

First, I took a four mile run this morning; I’ve decided that to run in the south, I need to run naked. Not really, but holy moly, I was a sweaty mess. Then I put on that bathing suit and spent hours in the sand and in the waves, chasing boys and things blowing in the sand. I also wore at that time a fine layer of sand across my skin as the wind really whipped the sand up and everywhere. Also add in some salt and possibly a bit of an adult beverage that I spilled on myself at one point while trying to jump out of the way of a soccer ball. Tips about that bathing suit: They are Asian shipped and sized. I bought an extra large and it fits like the medium I bought from Albion Fit this summer as well. That said, I need this mint, black and white bathing suit and this red and white polkadot monokini. The prices are ridiculously awesome, by the way.

Then I showered all the salt and sand and sweat off of every inch of my body and changed into my evening outfit for the day. My uncle’s family hosted dinner tonight across the street in their beach house: steaks and potatoes and all that jazz to honor the fathers in our lives — all of whom rank well above awesome. The back of the top is sheer and partially backless.

And those shorts, let me tell you, are a dream. I got them at JC Penney on what was my first trip into the store since the big redo, what, a year or two ago. They’re actually JCP brand and they’re a steal of a deal, let me tell you. I got them for $12/pair on sale, and I got the khaki/biscotti color, the royal blue/verve violet color and the french turquoise geometric print. I haven’t enjoyed shorts this much since high school. They just fit like a dream.

I also wore: the relaxed smile of a Jenna on vacation. I will be wearing that the rest of the week as well. It’s my favorite accessory.

Still so much to do.

I have to finish packing my clothes, because going naked on a multi-generational family vacation is not only frowned upon but extremely awkward. Work stuff needs worked on, laundry needs laundered. The dog needs extra special attention before we ship her off to stay with my brother for an entire week. The boys need to pick books and games, even though they’ll argue while picking and then they’ll argue over the picks while we’re there and, really maybe it would be easier if we left all the stuff of aruging at home — except the car ride would be more intolerable with the whining. I need to buy, in no special order: conditioner, tissues for my non-stop runny nose, more sunblock, ear plugs, snacks for the drive. I want to take a quick run despite this infernal cold. I want to sit, to sleep, to already be sitting on the beach in the sun.

I rush around, as I always do, but more so, because there’s so much to do and the time left to do it keeps ticking away. My rushing devolves, as rushing usually does, and I don’t quite get done what I intend to get done. I end up forgetting why I have entered a room or exited the house. I stand on the front porch with the vague recollection that I was going to ask my husband a question… or go to the garage to get something out of the vehicle… or ask the boys to do something… or… something… when I look down.

My dahlia has bloomed its first flower.

I stand, my toes dangling over the edge of the porch, and bend slowly to touch her petals. My breathing, all through my mouth since my nose has left early for vacation this year, slows as I am overcome with the simple beauties of this life. Despite what William Allen White said about women needing to raise more hell than dahlias, I’ve raised a lot of hell in my day. I continue to do so — pushing the envelope and standing firm and being all when I need to be all. Sometimes I just want to sit on the edge of my flower garden and gaze at the beauty springing forth from the Earth. Sometimes I just want to slow down from all of the rushing and the here and the there and smile at the pink and green and yellow and tones in between. Sometimes I just want to stop and give thanks for the small things.

I plan on relaxing more than raising hell this vacation. I plan on looking for more of the beauty. Creating and participating in memories. Laughing and loving and living and eating and drinking and napping and sunning and reading and chasing and jumping in waves and being part of a family. There will be time again for raising hell when vacation ends. This is the time for slowing down. (After tomorrow, that is. One more day to get through!)

52 Weeks of Brotherhood, Week 23

Sometimes the list of things to do grows beyond all reasonable comprehension. Sometimes it looms and pokes and boasts and pokes. Sometimes you have to miss a baseball game in favor of other commitments. It’s usually during that game that your emerging baseball lover will hit his first double. It is then that the crushing weight of working mom guilt washes over you. Kind words will come from other parents: “I have learned that you can’t be at them all.” Truth doesn’t always absolve the guilt, doesn’t lessen the sting because later, the question comes, “Why do you have to work so much, Mommy?”

Sometimes you wake on a Sunday morning and barely get the kids to church on time and, just before service begins, you take a look at the weather and vow to ignore the laundry that piled during a hectic week and the dishes still in the sink from the night before. You rush home from church without telling them what your plans might be. You run around, finding swimming trunks and new beach chairs and sunblock and flip flops and beach towels and buckets and all of the beach things — that you’ll have to rinse out and clean immediately afterward to pack for vacation but, good gravy, you just need to escape with your boys and be for an afternoon.

And sometimes for three hours on a somewhat cloudy, not as warm as originally predicted, still beautiful Sunday, your boys are verbally and outwardly grateful for your impromptu un-planning of their day. And for three hours, they get along and play all of the things and splash and tunnel and dig and run and swim and come up with games and eat snacks and love on each other and on you. They spill over with happy and joy. They thank you, umpteen billion times. You sit in your chair and re-read the same sentence in a book you dared to bring. Setting it down, you stare at the sky and close your eyes and let the almost-heat wash over you, giving thanks for the giggles in the distance, for the blessing of two boys who care that you spend time with them or not, who recognize that good fun comes after long work, who love and love and love.

On the way home, slightly sunkissed cheeks glow in the rearview mirror. “Mommy, that was the best surprise ever.”

If only all of parenting resulted in such a feeling, such a response. I’ll take what I can get.

What I Wore Sunday, June 9, 2013

• Coral 3/4 length top: Rue 21
• Cream cami: Some store in Asheville, NC – 2011
• Coral and taupe pencil skirt: Old Navy – Similar
• Gold flats
• Multi-leaf gold necklace: Chloe & Isable
• Single gold leaf necklace: Effloresence Necklace by Lia Sophia
• Peach rosette earrings

That skirt was a $3.97 impulse buy during an Old Navy sale. I bought it thinking that I had something to wear with it. Alas, I did not. I then accidentally scored the coral top during a Rue 21 BOGO sale. I only bought it because I bought one of the mint and thought, well, another shirt is free, so why not get this hip “new” coral color that seems to be everywhere. Even still, I didn’t put two and two together. It wasn’t until I had the skirt on this morning, almost opting to wear a boring white top, that I realized I had something that would work together. Further proof: My style is Fly By the Seat of My Pants. Er, skirt.

I tend not to buy too much coral, too much peach — bright or pastel. I started to form my style in the 90′s. Beyond the flannel and Doc Martens, knowing what “season” your skin tone, eye color and hair color made you was all the rage. I remember attending some ridiculous faith-based group for girls as a middle schooler. We talked about everything from sex (don’t do it!) to makeup (don’t wear too much!) to clothing. “Oh, you’re a deep winter. Look at that dark hair and those dark eyes and that pale skin. Oh yes, jewel tones only for you. Stay on the cool side. Never, ever, EVER wear warm colors.” A book that I had — that I pored over — informed me that if I wanted to be a powerful working woman someday, I had to wear the right clothes and the right colors. A college class, years later, taught me about presenting myself on camera; how to wear my makeup, how to wear my glasses (no! glasses! on! camera!), what colors to wear. More of the same: no warm colors for you! No browns. No oranges. No peaches. No corals. Stay with cool jewel tones.

And I did.

It’s not that I don’t like jewel tones. Perhaps you’ve seen me in a bit of true or kelly or forest or bright green. (Understatement.) I also look marvelous in true red and royal blue and deep fuchsia. Bright white, deep black, a bit of navy. All of these things look great on me — on my pale skin with my dark brown eyes with my dark brown hair.

But…

I’m not one for rules. Or, I am. To a point. And, well, not really with fashion. I will go the speed limit. I will refuse to jaywalk. I will pay my taxes on time and to the letter. But if you tell me I can’t wear white after Labor Day, I’m going to show up on Tuesday morning with white pants and white shoes and a smirk on my face that says, “I wear what I want.” It took me awhile to get here, to this point where I feel comfortable dressing how I want — which mostly means dresses and skirts and lots of flow and fun and funk and, well, Jenna. But it’s a good place to be. And sometimes that means I wear browns. And corals. I own an orange sweater, but please don’t tell my grandmother. Do I gravitate toward those deep true jewel tones? Of course. But I like other colors too. I really just like color in general. So if it speaks to me — and it’s $3.97 — I’m going to buy it and wear it and own it.

Anyway, I loved my coral outfit today. Later in the day, I brought it back and wore a navy bathing suit at the beach to redeem my deep winter coloring. You can take the girl out of the 90′s…

While inconvenient, as the bridge connects the northern and southern portions of our small city, avoiding the long, sloping bridge over the train tracks is possible. A shortcut here, a longcut there, a roundabout, a “let’s explore this road we’ve never driven on before.” A purposeful, intentional avoidance; a subconscious, necessary avoidance.

After working a fourteen hour day, my eyes felt dry and scratchy; my mind, nothing but goo. The boys needed cereal, needed non-skim milk for their breakfasts. A mother’s work never done, never complete; I ran the errands in silence. No radio, the window down just a smidgen on an unseasonably cool June evening. Lost in thoughts and non-thoughts, I suddenly found myself on the bridge.

A sharp intake of breath. My foot pulled off the gas, a reflex quite the same as if you had accidentally walked on the fresh dirt of a newly covered grave. My hands gripped the wheel, white-knuckled. Don’t look over the side. Just look forward. Just. Look. Forward. Red light. Fingers tapping, deep-breathing practicing. Green light, go!

The wake of a public suicide always leaves me shaky, uneasy. The demons and ghosts and memories of my past — my present — begin to swirl and mix, dance and laugh, cry and poke at the places I prefer to keep hidden. I close my eyes and try to hide, but they remain in my vision, in my brain, in my soul. I feel the loss deeply, keenly, as I have been there. I have stood there, on that bridge that is any bridge, in that space that is any space, in that mindset that is deep and dark and empty and full and everything and nothing. I have wished and wanted and been there, in that place that we don’t dare discuss for fear of judgment, for fear of being labeled “unwell,” “unsafe,” or even insane.

We speak in hushed tones, if we even speak at all, about suicide. While the work that people like Cristi at Motherhood Unadorned did in the recent Overnight for Suicide Prevention shows that people do care, that people are talking about it, even she recognized the disconnect.

At one point halfway through as we casually discussed these typically intense topics, I noted “how wonderful is it to be able to talk about medication and suicide with so many people who really get it.” There were never judgements. Just love and support and no stigma.

It’s not that I expect the general public to understand what it’s like to stand on the edge, figuratively or literally. Once I step back from the edge, once I catch my breath myself, it’s even hard for me to understand what brought me to that point, what took me beyond the place of understanding to the dark, to the unknown. The judgments from others are quick, heavy. Selfish. Weak. We label, we point fingers. “I would never do that,” sufficiently silencing anyone struggling, anyone sitting in the crowd who might be struggling with their own thoughts, with their own fears. The venom of hatred toward suicide paralyzing those that need to be able to speak, to reach out, to ask, “But what if…”

I held my breath through the next light, only relaxing as I turned the corner and headed toward the light of the setting sun in the direction of our home. Toward my boys, toward my husband, toward everything that means anything to me. I slowly made my way through the emptying streets, dusk settling in and pushing people back to their homes, to what matters. I thought of the man lost this week — a husband, a father. I thought of the woman a few years ago — a mother. “How could they do that to their children,” people scoff, judge. Another way to silence those hurting, those most in need of having the safe place to say, “I don’t know what I need, but this place is scary. I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I’m hurting.” We mock “cries for help.” We make jokes. We rant. We hate. My guess is that all of the lashing out is less about the person or concept being judged and more about not wanting to go there, not wanting to understand out of fear of admitting that, yes, we’re all human and flawed and hurting in so many ways, on so many levels.

Being human is scary and hard and real and painful and wonderful and amazing and fulfilling and squelching and everything in between.

– __ — __ —

The week before, I sent a friend a text.

“I’m not okay.”

And I wasn’t. A series of overwhelming life events and mishaps and even good things pushed me into a dark corner of self, of fear, of depression. I began to spew forth a series of everything weighing on me, the everything and nothing smashing into one another, into me. “I’m a failure.” “I’m the worst mother ever.” “I’ll never be a good enough wife.” “I don’t want to be a birth mother anymore.” “The house won’t sell.” “I’m just… tired.” Eventually emptying my soul, I set off on a run. Slowly — slowly — the right overtook the wrong, the light overtook the darkness. However briefly I felt lost, I found myself again a day or so later.

– __ — __ –

I pulled into my garage and shut off the car. I sat, silently, before the dog jumped up at the door, her pointy ears and nose visible. Sometimes knowing that people and pets and work and all of the things and and all of the people rely on you to make things happen, to make everything work can be overwhelming. Sometimes the feeling of pressure is constant, an indescribable weight. Sometimes the medication meant to quell the anxiety doesn’t quite cut it. Sometimes sleep evades. Sometimes life is too much, too big, too present, too past, too future, too everything, too nothing.

And sometimes the sight of your dog at the door, the sound of your kids’ feet thumping to the doorway to meet you, brings you back to the safe space, the quiet place.

I gathered the bag with the cereal, slipped my hand through the sweaty handle of the milk jug and stepped out of the car. Barking and little voices, hands and paws, greeting and asking all of the questions and licking the back of my knees. I gave a silent thanks for being here, in this moment — for being okay again, for being able to breathe, for a moment that feels normal. These are the moments that I come back from the bridge that is any bridge, the space that is any space.

If you don’t have a friend to text and you need to talk to someone, visit National Suicide Prevention Lifeling or call 1-800-273-TALK.

June 5th happens to be National Running Day. I think that’s stupid. National Running Day should be in February or even March or November… or something that isn’t ridiculously humid, leaving me a sweaty, disgusting mess.

But I ran.

While I was running, I noticed that the honeysuckle is in bloom. The smell, almost overwhelming in spots on my run, reminded me to take deeper breaths, to be in control of my breathing. The new Mizuno shoes that I am breaking in as of yesterday made me feel like I was floating on air. Again. The salty sweat dripping into my eyes reminded me that I need to change my contacts. Ow.

The feeling of finishing up my three mile run washed over me, making me smile despite the half-blinding-salty-sweat in my eyes. The sun setting over the countryside filled me up, replacing everything I left out on the country roads.

I run to be the best me. I run because I can. I run because it makes me happy, whole.

52 Weeks of Brotherhood, Week 22

The minute hand whirs by all day long, constantly passing me as I race to catch up. I hurried down the hall, a thousand things on my to-do list and a million more on my mind. But something in my peripheral vision caused me to pause, pushed a button in my mind that slowed me to a stop and ever-so-slowly caused me to back up into the door of my youngest son’s bedroom.

There I found them, partially under the covers on a warm summer break day.

“What are you doing?” I asked, my eyes narrowing. Quiet, mostly still boys who aren’t arguing over whether or not to play Star Wars usually means someone — or both someones are up to no good.

They smiled up at me.

“Cuddling.”

Someday they won’t cuddle. Even if they hang out with one another in close proximity, they won’t call it cuddling. Right now, however, they do. I smiled at them, suddenly not caring what I had previously been rushing off to do, to accomplish. I sat on the bed, relaxing back into a massive pile of stuffed animals, Toy Story characters and Angry Birds. I closed my eyes and listened to the giggles of happy brothers, of two that know each other so well — too well. I gave thanks for the moment, for the two of them, for the blessing that I have been given to be their mother.

And then someone farted.

Story of my life.

That said, a lot of people have been asking me questions. “How did you lose the weight?” “What did you do?” “What did you eat?” “Did you try any supplements or any cleanses or Weight Watchers or diet foods or pray to the Weight Loss God?” I’ve been asked a lot of questions about my process. Now that I’m not actively training for a half marathon (as that doesn’t start until July), I thought I’d take a bi-weekly training post spot and talk about my weight loss journey.

First stop on the journey: How I got to the point where I needed to lose weight.

In 2010, I ended up with a back injury. Looking back, it may have come from falling down the steps on Christmas Eve, but we’re still not 100% certain. Instead of doing something about it, I wallowed in the pain. Oh, I wallowed. For a year and a half. In that time, I gained 30 pounds. This didn’t help my back pain. As my doctor pointed out, it only put added weight and pressure on my L4 & L5 which were jammed together. Adding on the weight only exacerbated the problem and pain, causing more wallowing. I was a mess. In July 2012, I finally went about getting my back fixed via four injections on both sides of my spine. I felt better. And then decided to go about getting healthy again — per the advice/request/demand of my doctor and the personal desire to be myself again.

Next stop: Moving again.

In August 2012, I started running again. I had been running off and on for years, including prior to the injury in 2010. I knew I liked running and it would be a good start on my journey. I also felt compelled to start running again because my physical therapist told me that a lot of back injury patients never run again. Tell me I can’t do something? I’m going to do it.

My first runs were slow. 14-minute mile slow. The early runs also involved a measure of back pain, though nothing compared to what I had lived with for a year and a half. As the pain began to subside altogether, my lungs remembered how to function and my legs — though shocked — continued to shuffle along. It took me two months to hit two miles and another month and a half after that to hit three miles. But I kept running, almost every day — with some time off here and there as I learned to listen to my body, to not push my back too far, too soon. After that point, I was again hooked on running and there was no turning back.

Of note: My calves got bigger before they leaned out. They’re still stupid muscular (see also the 9 mile pic on my marathon post), but my knee-height boots do all fit again. I love my calves.

At the same time: I began to look at what I was eating.

My problem wasn’t the food I was consuming. Over the past handful of years, my husband and I have worked hard to cut a lot of junk and processed foods out of our daily diet. We don’t have “convenience” pull-it-out-of-the-freezer-and-heat-it-up-for-dinner meals/junk, which is sometimes a bummer. (I mean, sometimes you just want Pizza Rolls. But we don’t have any. Nor do we have chicken nuggets/etc for the kids. No convenience food means no convenience. Sad.) So it wasn’t exactly what I was eating as opposed to how much I was eating. I like to eat. I like food. Food tastes good. And so, instead of changing up what I was eating, I reevaluated my portion sizes. I began eating slightly smaller meals. Additionally, instead of eating a second helping, I began drinking a glass of milk with every dinner meal. After I finished my serving, I would finish my milk and wait awhile. If I was still hungry, I took a small helping. But really? I was almost never hungry after that glass of milk.

At restaurants, I struggled — and maybe still do — but I began working on portion sizes while out to eat as well. I came home with a lot of doggie bags because, good gravy, restaurant portion sizes are out of control. But hey, lunch the next day!

At the same time: I began to look at what I was drinking.

In October, I cut pop (soda, for you weird people) out of my diet. Completely. Cold turkey. All done. I also used the swanky water bottle I got from the National Honey Board people at BlogHer ’12 like it was going out of style. I don’t know why, but if you put a straw in something, I’m going to drink the heck out of it. I upped my water intake to somewhere between 48 and 60 ounces per day. Sometimes lower, rarely higher. I still drink 2-4 (or, uh, 5?) cups of coffee per day. When we would go to restaurants, I’d either drink water or unsweetened (yes, you read that right, mainly because we’re Yankees) iced tea. I craved pop something fierce for awhile, especially when eating pizza (homemade or out) or Chipotle. The cravings passed. I recently had my first pop since October when we made root beer floats. It was yummy, but I felt no desire for more pop. I’m cured!

I cut out almost all fancy coffee drinks as well. I allowed myself two peppermint mochas during the holiday shopping time. Two. I’m feeling cheated even now just writing that. I think I also had one sweetened green tea latte over the time period. This wasn’t a huge or hard change for me as I drink my regular coffee black, but still, having the mental argument over whether or not I needed those extra, unnecessary calories was always a struggle. But I won.

Here’s the sad part if you’re looking to follow in my footsteps: During the height of my weight loss journey, I also cut out alcohol. Sorry, folks. But it’s true. That’s a lot of needless calories and, if you’re a wine drinker like me, sugar. As a bonus however, adding it back in after my half marathon showed me that I lost a lot of my tolerance and am now a super cheap date.

Along the way, and maybe not related, but possibly: I had an endometrial ablation.

I wrote about my ablation before, but I’ve never discussed what I see as a personal benefit: lack of monthly bloating. Prior to my ablation, I struggled to lose weight on a monthly basis. I would drop, oh, four or five pounds in a month — only to gain it back when my cycle would return with a mean vengeance. Every month. That was kind of defeating. After my ablation, guess what didn’t happen? Monthly bloating! So any weight that I was able to lose in any given month stayed off. MAGIC. I have read other reviews in which people gained weight after an endometrial ablation, but my personal guess is that they weren’t running 50 miles per month. I maintain that the decision to have an ablation remains my best health decision ever. My husband agrees; I’m apparently nicer now.

Along the way, most likely related: I got my anxiety under control again.

After my back procedure and subsequent journey back to health, I assumed my anxiety would right itself. I thought beginning to physically feel like myself would mean that I would mentally and emotionally feel like myself again. Wrong answer. I went to my doctor and explained what was going on — the remaining panic attacks and general feeling of woe — and she put me on an anti-anxiety medication again. Voila! No incessant mood swings accompanied by self-loathing and binge-eating. Again, people report weight gain after starting medication. I did not. I attribute that to a high level of movement.

In the end, I lost 36 pounds. I am choosing not to share my specific pre-weight (highest non-pregnancy weight, higher than two of my pregnancies) and post-weight as I feel that numbers are often a stumbling block for understanding. You merely need to know that I lost 36 pounds, am well within the healthy BMI range (which means next to nothing), dropped between 3 and 4 clothing sizes, and feel the best I’ve felt since pre-BigBrother. I was thinner — scale-number wise — after both boys, but that was a result of postpartum depression. I looked scary at points after the boys were born. Looking scary was never my goal.

Moving my body without pain was my goal.

Chasing my boys around the yard was my goal.

Walking through an amusement park or a fair or around the neighborhood with my family was my goal.

Walking the dog was my goal.

Being healthy was my ultimate goal. I’m healthy. And that, sizes and numbers aside, feels amazing.

From August to June, down 36 pounds — and over 500 miles logged. Note: Two of my favorite lady friends are to the left of me in the 2012 photo. Love you, ladies!

So, some FAQ’s that I’ve run across in sharing my story.

Do you eat low calorie or fat free foods?

No. NO. I’m a full calorie, full fat, REAL BUTTER kind of gal. I hate artificial sweeteners and refuse to eat them; they taste gross. Yes, I eat cupcakes when I make them for parties. Yes, I ate the root beer float the other night. Yes, when we take the boys for ice cream after baseball games, I get one. Pro tip: I get a kids’ sized cone because when did a small cone mean three scoops? Goodness. Yes, I eat cheeseburgers and real sour cream and delicious cream cheese. I did switch to natural peanut butter because, with my kidney, I need less sodium. We eat a lot more fruit in this house than we did previously. And hummus. All the hummus.

So what do you snack on?

Cuties (or their citrusy, seasonal counterparts) are a big go-to for me. KIND bars are now either my post-run snack or a midday snack. Pretzel Crisps with hummus = love. Apples and peanut butter. Cheese. (Real cheese. Like, Amish real cheese. Mmm.) Almonds. (Unsalted, which are totally boring, but both LittleBrother and I love them.)

Wait — no weight loss pills or cleanses?

No. That’s not really how I roll. Not to say I didn’t try them repeatedly over the years. Man, was I stupid in college. I’m jittery enough and visit the bathroom enough without adding random things to my body.

Did you gain weight before your half marathon?

Yes, I did. To run the lengthier distances (10+), I would have to eat some more calories, and my appetite also soared in general during this time as I was burning 1000+ calories per run. So, I ate more. I’m not going to deny my body food when I’m working in overdrive. I gained around 4-6 pounds as the half marathon approached. Two weeks later, having only run distances less than 6.1 miles since the half marathon and thus not needing the extra calories (and actually not consuming them despite still liking food), my weight is back to where it was prior to the calorie hike. 36 pounds down. Do I expect to gain weight again before my next half marathon? Sure. Do I care? Not a bit. Hi! I run half marathons! I AM AWESOME NO MATTER WHAT MY WEIGHT IS.

You still don’t look like a runner.

During my half marathon, I passed — and was passed by — people of all shapes and sizes. Let me tell you, the shape of your body has nothing to do with endurance and/or the ability to run. If you are telling yourself that as an excuse to avoid running, it’s just that — an excuse. If you’re telling yourself that I can’t be a runner because you are and you look better than me, well then, I think you’re missing the point of running in general. As I tell my sons, “Mind yourself.”

Do you expect to maintain this? Do you want to lose more? You should probably lose more; you still have a gut.

I do expect to maintain my weight loss. I’ve made some healthy changes and choices and will continue to work on running and movement in general. I have no goal to lose any more weight. I am happy and healthy where I am right now — and the clothes in my closet fit right now. Losing weight is expensive and I feel done with replacing clothes. Ha! And no, I shouldn’t probably lose more. Yes, I still have skin where three pregnancies stretched out my belly. Do I wish the skin would magic away? Sure! But maybe you should read an amazing perspective on stretch-marked, stretched-out, saggy, baby-caused-this skin instead and then lay off my belly skin.

What’s your overall advice to someone wanting to lose weight?

First off, don’t make it all about losing the weight. Make your main goal to be the healthiest version of you — at any weight — instead of an arbitrary number. And, secondly, this is what I tell people: Eat slightly smaller meals and move more. The end. (Oh, and yes, eat real butter because, REAL BUTTER.)

If you have more questions, I will answer them to the best of my ability. Thank you for being part of my journey — for accepting me and loving me when I was stuck in pain and wallowing, for supporting me as I began the process of moving again, and for celebrating my achievements.

What I Wore Sunday, June 2, 2013

• Green and cream strapless maxi dress: Soco Vintage via Groopdealz
• Silver, green, blue and yellow necklace: Beach House by Lia Sophia
• Yellow rose earrings
• Nude peep toe sling back heels: Jaclyn Smith at Kmart
• Not Pictured: Cream cardigan from Maurices, so I didn’t get cold in church

And wicked tan lines.

I knew I needed this dress when I first saw it on Soco Vintage, but I waited until one of the flash deal sites that I frequent had it for under $30.00. It is lined to the knee, which is important with white material. While this dress fits me like a dream and is extremely comfortable and flattering at the same time, I would not have paid the $54.00 as the quality doesn’t meet some of my standards. I had big bunches of strings sticking out at several seams that I had to cut off — two of which I missed until my husband pointed them out. In church. Thanks, honey. It also comes with those ridiculous threaded belt loops. Why do clothing companies put those on dresses? I have cut every single one off over the past few years. The elastic at the top of the strapless dress is poorly sewn and it constantly tries to flip itself around and twist. It’s a constant fight. And, sadly, one of my green chevron seams can be seen through the cream section, kind of ghosting itself. It probably only bothers me… but it bothers me.

All that said, it looks pretty dang good on and, despite the fact that it’s not going to last the test of time, I’m probably going to wear the heck out of it this summer. I know it’s making the beach vacation trip. It may make the BlogHer ’13 trip as well for and evening look, though I’ll decide that after I see how it travels in for our vacation. (Oh, sweet love, please hurry, vacation!)

As a side note, this dress naps well. If you know me, I don’t nap unless I’m exhausted. I didn’t even nap after my half marathon. After we got home from church today, I immediately crawled into bed — and slept for almost an hour and a half. In the dress. It didn’t wrinkle that badly. I needed a nap today. Then I threw on yucky clothes to finish working in the flower beds. Then I threw on running clothes for a six mile run.

The wicked tan lines will only continue to get worse. Even wearing 60SPF. Woo.