So, I haven't really had a memorable dream in a long time. Then, after being up with Bobby around 5am, I decided to sneak in one more hour of sleep, rather than just calling the night over and going downstairs for coffee.
I had one of the worst dreams. Ever.
In it, I was watching Jack and Charlie at football practice. The coach... for some insane reason... lined up the boys for tackling drills, and paired each of them with a member from the varsity squad. These kids look like giants next to my two -- who happen to be two of the smallest on the entire team. (Of course, what they lack in size right now, they totally make up for with heart. They're like the "Rudys" of PAL football. But I digress...) So I'm watching this with a very uneasy feeling. The older boys grab my boys' hands and each pair take off running for the tackling dummy. KA-POW! The older kids shrug off the impact, but my boys are left lying on the ground. Charlie manages to get up, takes off his helmet and starts walking away, but Jack is still and not responding. I leap from the bleachers and have the moment I have always dreaded -- which kid do I go to first if they're BOTH hurt? I glanced over at the trainer and coach attending to Jack and sprint after Charlie. He looks dazed, but relatively coherent. I tell him we need to go check on Jack, who is now conscious, but is completely out of it. I ask him what year it is, and he responds, "1932." Then he proceeds to tell me about how he and his friends are graduating from high school... At that point, I commence freaking out. There's a doctor who "magically" shows up (as people often do in dreams) and tells me to take him home and keep an eye on him. I'm all, "I don't think so. I mean, my child thinks it's 1932!" I begin piecing together any bit of head injury knowledge I have EVER picked up, and realize a brain injury only gets worse before it gets better. I begin obsessing over swelling, brain bleeds and cranial pressure. And I am convinced that Jack will not make it.
Soon after that, I woke up. My first thought is that wave of relief, realizing it had all been a dream. The second thing I realized is that I was crying. Really? Crying in my sleep? Never had that happen before. But oh. my. gosh. What a crazy dream!
About 10 minutes later, I went to the boys' room to make sure they were getting up. Charlie got up and came downstairs with me. I gave him such a tight "good morning" hug, and kissed the top of his head. I contemplated telling him about the dream, then decided against it. They are the most high-spirited, give-it-everything-they-have little guys. They run hard, tackle hard, go for the ball... I wouldn't want either of them to hold back simply because "Mom had a bad dream..." After Jack and Sam joined us downstairs and they were all getting ready for school, I did tell them both about the dream; but I made sure I told them that I love the energy they bring to the field, and I still want them to have fun and play well...
Just. Be. Careful.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
Today is my mom's birthday. Ordinarily, I would have sent something... flowers most likely. However, she and my dad are currently on vacation in Myrtle Beach and visiting friends in Sumter, SC.
I'm pretty confident she would have no problem with me revealing her age, which is 72. (And if you cringe when you read this, Mom,... sorry!) My mom has never "looked" or, for that matter, acted her age, and would often amaze friends when they found out her age. That is not to say she is immature -- not by any means. She likes to laugh and have fun; apparently many people assume aging depletes your sense of humor and zest for life. Even if that were true, my mom would be the exception to that rule.
Likewise, my dad has not lost his grip on his sense of humor as he's aged either. Having just turned 66 a few weeks ago, he's still very able to see the lighter side of life.
When I was younger, I'm sure I may have assumed folks in their 60s and 70s would fall anywhere in the range from stodgy to grumpy. For some people, those words are right on the mark; but I am so thankful that my parents are anything but.
So, Happy Birthday, Mom! And a Happy Birthday (again) to you, Dad! I love you both so much, and wish you many, many more years of love, health and happiness.
I'm pretty confident she would have no problem with me revealing her age, which is 72. (And if you cringe when you read this, Mom,... sorry!) My mom has never "looked" or, for that matter, acted her age, and would often amaze friends when they found out her age. That is not to say she is immature -- not by any means. She likes to laugh and have fun; apparently many people assume aging depletes your sense of humor and zest for life. Even if that were true, my mom would be the exception to that rule.
Likewise, my dad has not lost his grip on his sense of humor as he's aged either. Having just turned 66 a few weeks ago, he's still very able to see the lighter side of life.
When I was younger, I'm sure I may have assumed folks in their 60s and 70s would fall anywhere in the range from stodgy to grumpy. For some people, those words are right on the mark; but I am so thankful that my parents are anything but.
So, Happy Birthday, Mom! And a Happy Birthday (again) to you, Dad! I love you both so much, and wish you many, many more years of love, health and happiness.
Friday, October 2, 2009
...and breathe...
I feel like I've been holding my breath for the past two weeks. My dear friend, Stephanie, called two Fridays ago and told me she'd be having major surgery on September 28.
So I prayed.
Whenever she crossed my mind in the days that followed, I prayed a small, silent prayer for a successful surgery and great recovery. This past Monday, the day of surgery, I prayed. Then I found that I was fortunate enough to be in the "loop." I received text updates on the surgery and how well she was doing. Once that was over, the next step was to wait for lab results. Today I received another text with great news. All is well and Stephanie should be recuperating in her own home this weekend.
Stephanie has been a close friend for over 10 years. She was my supervisor at work and continues to be an amazing role model and mentor. Personally, she has been one of my closest friends, whose experience and words of advice/wisdom have been carefully weighed and (in most cases) acted upon. She saw me through my first pregnancy, and predicted I was carrying twins just by looking at me one day. (This came before my OB even ordered a single ultrasound.) She has been a wonderful friend to me and my family.
And now I can breathe easy... knowing she's doing well.
May 2007Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
And in the end...
... the half-marathon wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.
I will be totally honest right now and tell you I was crazy nervous Saturday morning. It began Friday night as I got everything organized for the morning. Getting up at 5am and preparing (physically and mentally) for the race AND shooing three boys and the baby out the door demanded organization. And plenty of it. As I mentioned before, this was my first race after having Bobby. Prior to that, I'd run a few half-marathons and a number of 5Ks -- I had the pre-race routine down. Friday night? I found myself randomly remembering odd tidbits of how I used to prep. And I had to pack a diaper bag, too. I felt scattered at best. I made it to bed around 10:30, ensuring at least 6 hours of sleep. I like to have more, but beggars can't be choosers.
Luckily, as 5:30am rolled around, things pretty much went off without a hitch. Got Bobby and Sam dropped off at 6:15am (and I owe a HUGE thank you to close friend Vicki Frank and daughter Michelle, for getting up at such an insane hour on a Saturday to watch them) then Jack, Charlie and I trucked downtown. Those two boys were absolute troopers. They had a football game later that morning, and had to dress in their football uniforms and lug helmets and shoulder pads to my starting corral. We met friends there, and got ready to go. This was the first time the boys had ever been at the start of one of my races. Ever. And it meant the world to me. For years, I've stood waiting for races to begin, watching families chat and laugh with their race participant. Most times, I'd just put in my ear buds and stretch, pretending to mentally prepare, rather than feel very alone in a crowd of thousands. When I ran the Indianapolis 500 mini in 2008, Jeff was there with me, and that was great. I'd been running for three years, and that was the first time I ever had anyone watch me start and be there at the finish line. It even made me cry a little -- with happiness, of course. So, waiting for the gun and looking over at my two mop-topped football players telling me "Good luck, Mom!" and "I love you!" well... that was a little slice of heaven for me.
Jeff was running the half also, having arrived separately with three crewmates from his station. We'd hoped to meet up, but even as I scoured the crowd in our corral, I couldn't find him. I knew he'd finish way before me, and knowing I'd see him at the end of the race gave me such a wonderfully happy feeling.
We began the run, and I was fortunate enough to share most of the first mile with Lindy. Then a few runners wedged between us, and we got separated. I completely lost her when my tiny bladder demanded a trip to the porta-potty. In the first mile. Are you kidding me?!
The first four miles of the race took us directly south of the city. Then we hooked west over the river greenway, past one of our lovely parks and into a beautiful, historic neighborhood with grand homes. And hills. No one told me there'd be hills. OK. So they weren't, like, San Francisco hills -- they were more like inclines. But they still felt like hills... and I wouldn't have been surprised in the least to see a big ol' trolley go whistling past me. Mile 8 felt about six miles long. Soon, we began heading back toward downtown Fort Wayne. The race was to finish at the newly opened ball park and home of the Fort Wayne Tin Caps minor league baseball team. (Yes, that says "Tin Caps." Don't ask. It's a Johnny Appleseed thing.) At mile 10, I was very relieved to see double-digits and realized I only had three miles to go. On any given day, this would be a snap. For me at that point? My hip joints were having a screaming match with my knees. I. Hurt. Bad.
When I finally turned a corner and saw the field lights in the sky, I nearly cried. I'd made it back... not only from the race course, but from my pregnancy-induced hiatus. My training may have been half-baked, but, once again, I'd finished the whole 13.1 miles on my own two feet. Coming up to the stadium, I glanced up to the mezzanine area and saw my dear, wonderful husband watching for me. I could tell immediately he was freezing, having completley cooled down after finishing. I don't remember what he said (because, yes, I was so dazzled by seeing his smile I went a little loopy for a moment) but I remember yelling up to him that I expected a big hug at the finish line.
Two other runners and I ran down the street-level ramp and down onto the ball field. We were to run from the left field corner on the warning track, around to home plate. This is where people "kick it" and finish strong. I didn't immediately sprint -- I looked around, took in the scene of having a stadium full of people watch as we finished the race. Somewhere around first base, I heard another runner coming up on me, and I kicked into a sprint. At that moment, I wasn't lumbering toward the finish line... a 40-yr. old mom, still dealing with a bit of post-baby body issues. In my mind, I was in first place, headed for the finish line at Chicago. Or Boston. Or New York City. And I was the leader, stretching and straining to push hard, lean forward and break through the ribbon.
My official finish time was 2:51. Two hours and 51 minutes. My personal best thus far was something like 2:34 in Indy, when I missed my 2:30 goal by four measly minutes. But I was back, and 2:51 gives me something to work with and shave time from. My new goal is to run the Indy Mini in early May 2010. And I want to finish between 2:15 and 2:30. Or better.
And my dear, wonderful Jeffrey? He finished in 1:49 -- nearly a full hour before me. But that's OK. He waited for me and I got that hug at the finish line.
I will be totally honest right now and tell you I was crazy nervous Saturday morning. It began Friday night as I got everything organized for the morning. Getting up at 5am and preparing (physically and mentally) for the race AND shooing three boys and the baby out the door demanded organization. And plenty of it. As I mentioned before, this was my first race after having Bobby. Prior to that, I'd run a few half-marathons and a number of 5Ks -- I had the pre-race routine down. Friday night? I found myself randomly remembering odd tidbits of how I used to prep. And I had to pack a diaper bag, too. I felt scattered at best. I made it to bed around 10:30, ensuring at least 6 hours of sleep. I like to have more, but beggars can't be choosers.
Luckily, as 5:30am rolled around, things pretty much went off without a hitch. Got Bobby and Sam dropped off at 6:15am (and I owe a HUGE thank you to close friend Vicki Frank and daughter Michelle, for getting up at such an insane hour on a Saturday to watch them) then Jack, Charlie and I trucked downtown. Those two boys were absolute troopers. They had a football game later that morning, and had to dress in their football uniforms and lug helmets and shoulder pads to my starting corral. We met friends there, and got ready to go. This was the first time the boys had ever been at the start of one of my races. Ever. And it meant the world to me. For years, I've stood waiting for races to begin, watching families chat and laugh with their race participant. Most times, I'd just put in my ear buds and stretch, pretending to mentally prepare, rather than feel very alone in a crowd of thousands. When I ran the Indianapolis 500 mini in 2008, Jeff was there with me, and that was great. I'd been running for three years, and that was the first time I ever had anyone watch me start and be there at the finish line. It even made me cry a little -- with happiness, of course. So, waiting for the gun and looking over at my two mop-topped football players telling me "Good luck, Mom!" and "I love you!" well... that was a little slice of heaven for me.
Jeff was running the half also, having arrived separately with three crewmates from his station. We'd hoped to meet up, but even as I scoured the crowd in our corral, I couldn't find him. I knew he'd finish way before me, and knowing I'd see him at the end of the race gave me such a wonderfully happy feeling.
We began the run, and I was fortunate enough to share most of the first mile with Lindy. Then a few runners wedged between us, and we got separated. I completely lost her when my tiny bladder demanded a trip to the porta-potty. In the first mile. Are you kidding me?!
The first four miles of the race took us directly south of the city. Then we hooked west over the river greenway, past one of our lovely parks and into a beautiful, historic neighborhood with grand homes. And hills. No one told me there'd be hills. OK. So they weren't, like, San Francisco hills -- they were more like inclines. But they still felt like hills... and I wouldn't have been surprised in the least to see a big ol' trolley go whistling past me. Mile 8 felt about six miles long. Soon, we began heading back toward downtown Fort Wayne. The race was to finish at the newly opened ball park and home of the Fort Wayne Tin Caps minor league baseball team. (Yes, that says "Tin Caps." Don't ask. It's a Johnny Appleseed thing.) At mile 10, I was very relieved to see double-digits and realized I only had three miles to go. On any given day, this would be a snap. For me at that point? My hip joints were having a screaming match with my knees. I. Hurt. Bad.
When I finally turned a corner and saw the field lights in the sky, I nearly cried. I'd made it back... not only from the race course, but from my pregnancy-induced hiatus. My training may have been half-baked, but, once again, I'd finished the whole 13.1 miles on my own two feet. Coming up to the stadium, I glanced up to the mezzanine area and saw my dear, wonderful husband watching for me. I could tell immediately he was freezing, having completley cooled down after finishing. I don't remember what he said (because, yes, I was so dazzled by seeing his smile I went a little loopy for a moment) but I remember yelling up to him that I expected a big hug at the finish line.
Two other runners and I ran down the street-level ramp and down onto the ball field. We were to run from the left field corner on the warning track, around to home plate. This is where people "kick it" and finish strong. I didn't immediately sprint -- I looked around, took in the scene of having a stadium full of people watch as we finished the race. Somewhere around first base, I heard another runner coming up on me, and I kicked into a sprint. At that moment, I wasn't lumbering toward the finish line... a 40-yr. old mom, still dealing with a bit of post-baby body issues. In my mind, I was in first place, headed for the finish line at Chicago. Or Boston. Or New York City. And I was the leader, stretching and straining to push hard, lean forward and break through the ribbon.
My official finish time was 2:51. Two hours and 51 minutes. My personal best thus far was something like 2:34 in Indy, when I missed my 2:30 goal by four measly minutes. But I was back, and 2:51 gives me something to work with and shave time from. My new goal is to run the Indy Mini in early May 2010. And I want to finish between 2:15 and 2:30. Or better.
And my dear, wonderful Jeffrey? He finished in 1:49 -- nearly a full hour before me. But that's OK. He waited for me and I got that hug at the finish line.
Friday, September 25, 2009
It's go time... well, almost.
The clock is ticking and I am just about freaking out, thank you very much.
STATS
Number of miles: 13.1
Time remaining before the gun goes off: about 21 hours
Number of miles I've logged training: ummm... not as many as I am comfortable with.
Average pace of those I am supposed to run with: approx. 9:30
MY average pace these days: a smidge more than 9:30
Weather forecast: cloudy morning/afternoon sun (Much better than the "T-STORMS" predicted)
Amount of water I will drink today to be uber-hydrated: a whole damn lot
Number of times I will take a walk break: as many as I need, baby
Speaking of babies, number of months since I had Bobby: 6.5
Number of months since I received medical clearance to run following C-Section: about 5
RECAP
I have had five months to get back into pre-baby running shape, and training has been marginal at best. Life sometimes gets in the way like that. But you do what you can. And tomorrow? I am going to take on 13.1 miles through some, shall we say, interesting parts of Fort Wayne. I will do my best and give it everything I have -- but without being stupid and risking injury. I figured that the longest training run I had been able to do before previous half-marathons was a solid five miles, and I did OK. So my training wasn't as strenuous as I'd hoped/planned. I still got out there when I could and did the road work. I will not finish first, but I don't think I'll be last, either. But after the race, as in "cross-the-finish-line-and-grab-a-free-banana-and-let's-go" Jeff and I have to high-tail it out to Jack and Charlie's football game. It's a comeback week for them after a loss last week. I. Cannot. Miss. It. Period. And unless I am rolled into the gutter by fellow runners to wait for the first aid cart, I won't miss it.
For the record, my personal best for a half-marathon is 2:34, which I posted in the 2007 500 Festival Mini in Indianapolis. I tried to break 2:30 in 2008, but failed by a few minutes. I would love to say I hope to achieve this goal tomorrow, but I am just going out there to have fun and see where the numbers fall when my feet cross the finish line.
Because if running isn't fun, what's the point?
STATS
Number of miles: 13.1
Time remaining before the gun goes off: about 21 hours
Number of miles I've logged training: ummm... not as many as I am comfortable with.
Average pace of those I am supposed to run with: approx. 9:30
MY average pace these days: a smidge more than 9:30
Weather forecast: cloudy morning/afternoon sun (Much better than the "T-STORMS" predicted)
Amount of water I will drink today to be uber-hydrated: a whole damn lot
Number of times I will take a walk break: as many as I need, baby
Speaking of babies, number of months since I had Bobby: 6.5
Number of months since I received medical clearance to run following C-Section: about 5
RECAP
I have had five months to get back into pre-baby running shape, and training has been marginal at best. Life sometimes gets in the way like that. But you do what you can. And tomorrow? I am going to take on 13.1 miles through some, shall we say, interesting parts of Fort Wayne. I will do my best and give it everything I have -- but without being stupid and risking injury. I figured that the longest training run I had been able to do before previous half-marathons was a solid five miles, and I did OK. So my training wasn't as strenuous as I'd hoped/planned. I still got out there when I could and did the road work. I will not finish first, but I don't think I'll be last, either. But after the race, as in "cross-the-finish-line-and-grab-a-free-banana-and-let's-go" Jeff and I have to high-tail it out to Jack and Charlie's football game. It's a comeback week for them after a loss last week. I. Cannot. Miss. It. Period. And unless I am rolled into the gutter by fellow runners to wait for the first aid cart, I won't miss it.
For the record, my personal best for a half-marathon is 2:34, which I posted in the 2007 500 Festival Mini in Indianapolis. I tried to break 2:30 in 2008, but failed by a few minutes. I would love to say I hope to achieve this goal tomorrow, but I am just going out there to have fun and see where the numbers fall when my feet cross the finish line.
Because if running isn't fun, what's the point?
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Addictions and forgiveness on a rainy Tuesday night
It's been a long day. By 9:30, however, the four youngest of the family were asleep. Or at least in bed. Seeing as how I hadn't eaten much all day, I came downstairs to have a bowl of cereal. Someone in the house picked up a box of Chocolate Chex cereal at the store. Let me just go on record by saying they should just go ahead and print "CRACK" on the box. It's that good. You will enjoy it. You will become addicted to it. My first bowl led to a second bowl. There might have been a third if the second bowl hadn't finished off the last of the cereal.
This is what addiction looks like:
On a completely different note, Sid and I had a run in on Sunday morning. Literally. Jeff and I were scurrying about, trying to pack up the diaper bag and get out the door for church. I rushed into the kitchen to grab a bottle from the refrigerator, and somehow Sid got tangled in my feet. He yowled and hissed. Then he limped under the table and kept hissing at me. It was obvious he was hurt, but he wouldn't let me get near him. I felt so bad. When we returned later, he seemed OK, but I noticed he would run away from me for the rest of the day. Seriously. Imagine my surprise when tonight as I sat in the den watching The Office, enjoying my bowl of chocolate crack and milk, Sid wandered in. He eyeballed the spot on the sofa next to me. He jumped up, edging a little closer every minute or so. Soon, he jumped to the back of the sofa and crept along until one paw could reach my shoulder. Pat, pat, pat. About a minute more, and he was sprawled out behind me, obviously forgetting I had jacked up his leg two days ago.
And this is what forgiveness looks like:
This is what addiction looks like:
On a completely different note, Sid and I had a run in on Sunday morning. Literally. Jeff and I were scurrying about, trying to pack up the diaper bag and get out the door for church. I rushed into the kitchen to grab a bottle from the refrigerator, and somehow Sid got tangled in my feet. He yowled and hissed. Then he limped under the table and kept hissing at me. It was obvious he was hurt, but he wouldn't let me get near him. I felt so bad. When we returned later, he seemed OK, but I noticed he would run away from me for the rest of the day. Seriously. Imagine my surprise when tonight as I sat in the den watching The Office, enjoying my bowl of chocolate crack and milk, Sid wandered in. He eyeballed the spot on the sofa next to me. He jumped up, edging a little closer every minute or so. Soon, he jumped to the back of the sofa and crept along until one paw could reach my shoulder. Pat, pat, pat. About a minute more, and he was sprawled out behind me, obviously forgetting I had jacked up his leg two days ago.
And this is what forgiveness looks like:
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