I can't stand people who are not humble. People who need credit for what they do, have done, plan on doing. I can't stand self-serving, self-centered people who want the world to realize how great they are because they said so. That is sort of what this blog feels like to me now; am I no better than some pathetic jerk giving herself props about nothing in particular? I don't want to be someone who is keeping the scorecard and showing it to anyone who will look or listen. I have known too many people like this.
Marc, I love you for so many reasons, but mostly for your humility, for never taking credit for any of your amazing athletic (or professional) endeavors and conquests. You are amazing to me in so many ways and I love that you ride 200 miles on your bike for fun without a needing so much as a nod of approval from anyone else. Thanks for always being a superstar and not thinking you are. Your daughter is just like you. She swam a 500 tonight at workout and thought nothing of it, and I think she may have swam it faster than I can. You guys rock. Thanks for being my rock.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
Summer Lovin
Hours of beach time is what we are logging. All weekend long and now into Junior Guards today, we have seen way too much sun, but have loved every minute of it. I ran with Susan this morning, just like old times, as we pounded out the old course in the dark morning hours. It was as if a day had not gone by, though I worried the kids would wake up for my friend, Sharon, before I got back in the door.
I squeaked in a second run with the boy in the jogger while Owen was duck diving waves in Guards. The water looked anything but inviting, cold and dark blue. I wondered how she was dealing with going from 89 degree water to 65 degree temps? That girl is unstoppable and never complains; I was elated to watch from a distance while they navigated the boogie boards and ran along the shore. Ryan and I stopped at Power House Park on the way back from our run to swing and admired the many surfers and dolphins at play down below. Then it was back to the beach for more sand time, playing king of the mountain at one of Del Mar's many life guard towers, and hanging out with friends. With the fair in the landscape, it felt like summer is truly upon us, and it is! How could it be so long ago that I worked at Jake's in college and now I sat not far from it, as a parent, a wife, a mere visitor to these beaches? How could I have known so long ago what my story would be? I am not sure I would have written the book exactly this way, but God is the author of my life and He knows.
My kids have gone to bed raisins every night, between pool, ocean, pool and then showers before retiring. They really are water babies, their father's kids, wanting to be wet all of the time. I hope they inherit many of his numerous qualities and attributes, among those his affection for all things water. I hope my little Guard will soon swim the ocean like he does, with respect but also with a dose of reckless abandon. What is summer without the ocean? I have never known it any other way.
I squeaked in a second run with the boy in the jogger while Owen was duck diving waves in Guards. The water looked anything but inviting, cold and dark blue. I wondered how she was dealing with going from 89 degree water to 65 degree temps? That girl is unstoppable and never complains; I was elated to watch from a distance while they navigated the boogie boards and ran along the shore. Ryan and I stopped at Power House Park on the way back from our run to swing and admired the many surfers and dolphins at play down below. Then it was back to the beach for more sand time, playing king of the mountain at one of Del Mar's many life guard towers, and hanging out with friends. With the fair in the landscape, it felt like summer is truly upon us, and it is! How could it be so long ago that I worked at Jake's in college and now I sat not far from it, as a parent, a wife, a mere visitor to these beaches? How could I have known so long ago what my story would be? I am not sure I would have written the book exactly this way, but God is the author of my life and He knows.
My kids have gone to bed raisins every night, between pool, ocean, pool and then showers before retiring. They really are water babies, their father's kids, wanting to be wet all of the time. I hope they inherit many of his numerous qualities and attributes, among those his affection for all things water. I hope my little Guard will soon swim the ocean like he does, with respect but also with a dose of reckless abandon. What is summer without the ocean? I have never known it any other way.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
It's A Beautiful Life
Today. Here. The weather. The parks. The kids. We ran and rode the bike path. My daughter on her bike, rolling up and down the hills, while the wind blew her golden ringlets off her face, under her purple helmet. Her shoulders bearing the Florida sun, now exposed in her little tank to the warm California rays. My son, content as always in the jogging stroller, humming a song to himself, as we raced along under the liquid amber canopies. The sun was not yet high in the sky, just breaking through our tunnel of foliage, and all was right with the world. The temperature was perfect and the air was anything but humid. The ducks were just rousing from their sleep when we spotted a mom and her ten baby ducklings slipping into the water's edge along the golf course. The mountains were nothing short of miraculous, which is crazy, because I don't think I ever noticed them before.
We chased the path up and down the gently rolling hills, and though my daughter complained when she had to climb them, she never hesitated to charge down the backside ahead of me, never even looking back. She was always just within my range to yell to her, "Stay on the inside!" because I felt certain she would be clocked by someone coming too fast the opposite direction. We rode to the path's end and then turned around, her pace decidedly slower on the way back. Some guys on their fancy bikes, all decked out and looking pro, came up behind us at one point and encouraged her up the last hill, "Come on, you have to pedal.." So sweet and mild was this one man's voice, and for a moment, she pedaled with great fury as if to try to jump on the back and go with them.
"I'm thirsty, mom," she said, defeated just shy of the top of the last grade. We walked to the ridge. "Do you smell that, mom?" she asked me.
"What, lovely? The jasmine?" I replied.
"No! That sweet, sweet California air!" She scolded me for not knowing what she meant. Her scowl told me she was very disappointed in me for already taking it for granted after only one week.
"Oh! That! Of course, of course!" Really, I smelled the manure from nearby stables and the dry mustard along the path, buzzing with bees. "Yes, Dolly. I love it. I really do." Something rustled in the bushes and for a minute I thought it could be something large of the nature variety that I might not like meeting up with. But, when I realized it was gone, whatever it was, I relaxed again and continued to enjoy our moment. "Yes, my Love, I smell it."
We rambled on along the last of the path and I felt so content. But, then I remembered that this is what my life would look like if we lived here....the life of a single parent. This is how most people make it happen in San Diego: by working crazy hours and never seeing each other. Or, people are forced to farm out their kids to various daycare settings or pawn them off on other people to raise for the endless hours they have to be at work and travel, trying to make a living for their families. They have to shuffle their kids from here to there to everywhere, outsourcing daycare, in the name of earning a paycheck to carry the heavy mortgage. It is bittersweet when my son tells me he wants to go to that beautiful new school on the hill for Kindergarten and I have to tell him we have to go back East for Daddy's job for now. I don't have the heart to tell him that he and his sister will have to be home schooled in the fall since FL schools have failed us so miserably. I simply tell him, "Not this year, Honey, but maybe someday soon..."
Then I think about how I cherish all of these moments with my kids and dread the day I will have to leave them for an eight (plus) hour workday, dread the day they are old enough to not want to be with me. Right now, I want to document everything they do, capture all of their precious expressions. I savor every delicious comment they make, so why does home school feel like a prison sentence? Why is my heart filled with dread? Will we damage them more than the Florida school system already has?
Today while playing Monopoly, my kids were hilarious. We were dying laughing, practically peeing our pants every time my son or daughter or daughter's friend would bust out some crazy commentary or victory dance while collecting money or cashing in on a property. Shame on me for thinking the game was too advanced for them. Not only did they love playing it, they nearly beat me at it (2 hours later when I called bedtime). And when I told my boy to say, "Show me the money!" every time he rolled the dice, he inevitably became confused and started saying, "Give me the money!" when he threw the dice down. The girls fell to the floor in wild fits of laughter, and he was so proud of himself for carrying on such a show. His bright blue eyes blazing mischievously under that floppy blond hair, streaked with colors I cannot get a stylist to duplicate for me, as he danced around the room in sheer delight.
My friend Wendy took at long hard look at my son tonight during swim team while he was nestled in my lap and told me, "He just cannot be any more handsome. He is just so cute!" My response?
"Thank you. He looks just like his father."
And then I miss Marc like I have missed the mountains. It's a beautiful life.
We chased the path up and down the gently rolling hills, and though my daughter complained when she had to climb them, she never hesitated to charge down the backside ahead of me, never even looking back. She was always just within my range to yell to her, "Stay on the inside!" because I felt certain she would be clocked by someone coming too fast the opposite direction. We rode to the path's end and then turned around, her pace decidedly slower on the way back. Some guys on their fancy bikes, all decked out and looking pro, came up behind us at one point and encouraged her up the last hill, "Come on, you have to pedal.." So sweet and mild was this one man's voice, and for a moment, she pedaled with great fury as if to try to jump on the back and go with them.
"I'm thirsty, mom," she said, defeated just shy of the top of the last grade. We walked to the ridge. "Do you smell that, mom?" she asked me.
"What, lovely? The jasmine?" I replied.
"No! That sweet, sweet California air!" She scolded me for not knowing what she meant. Her scowl told me she was very disappointed in me for already taking it for granted after only one week.
"Oh! That! Of course, of course!" Really, I smelled the manure from nearby stables and the dry mustard along the path, buzzing with bees. "Yes, Dolly. I love it. I really do." Something rustled in the bushes and for a minute I thought it could be something large of the nature variety that I might not like meeting up with. But, when I realized it was gone, whatever it was, I relaxed again and continued to enjoy our moment. "Yes, my Love, I smell it."
We rambled on along the last of the path and I felt so content. But, then I remembered that this is what my life would look like if we lived here....the life of a single parent. This is how most people make it happen in San Diego: by working crazy hours and never seeing each other. Or, people are forced to farm out their kids to various daycare settings or pawn them off on other people to raise for the endless hours they have to be at work and travel, trying to make a living for their families. They have to shuffle their kids from here to there to everywhere, outsourcing daycare, in the name of earning a paycheck to carry the heavy mortgage. It is bittersweet when my son tells me he wants to go to that beautiful new school on the hill for Kindergarten and I have to tell him we have to go back East for Daddy's job for now. I don't have the heart to tell him that he and his sister will have to be home schooled in the fall since FL schools have failed us so miserably. I simply tell him, "Not this year, Honey, but maybe someday soon..."
Then I think about how I cherish all of these moments with my kids and dread the day I will have to leave them for an eight (plus) hour workday, dread the day they are old enough to not want to be with me. Right now, I want to document everything they do, capture all of their precious expressions. I savor every delicious comment they make, so why does home school feel like a prison sentence? Why is my heart filled with dread? Will we damage them more than the Florida school system already has?
Today while playing Monopoly, my kids were hilarious. We were dying laughing, practically peeing our pants every time my son or daughter or daughter's friend would bust out some crazy commentary or victory dance while collecting money or cashing in on a property. Shame on me for thinking the game was too advanced for them. Not only did they love playing it, they nearly beat me at it (2 hours later when I called bedtime). And when I told my boy to say, "Show me the money!" every time he rolled the dice, he inevitably became confused and started saying, "Give me the money!" when he threw the dice down. The girls fell to the floor in wild fits of laughter, and he was so proud of himself for carrying on such a show. His bright blue eyes blazing mischievously under that floppy blond hair, streaked with colors I cannot get a stylist to duplicate for me, as he danced around the room in sheer delight.
My friend Wendy took at long hard look at my son tonight during swim team while he was nestled in my lap and told me, "He just cannot be any more handsome. He is just so cute!" My response?
"Thank you. He looks just like his father."
And then I miss Marc like I have missed the mountains. It's a beautiful life.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
The March of Death
I knew better than to drink the Gatorade. I really did. But there Henry was, in all his cycling glory, at mile 12 offering his help and support. He biked ahead and got me some orange Gatorade around mile 14, and it was the best thing that ever passed my lips, until it hit my stomach and the syrupy slime sat in my belly like a rock.
Gary and I had started off together with Tracy in the same corral. Trace left us almost immediately, and we bid her farewell. He and I talked and laughed about life in Vero, his troubled history with his wife of sorts, and how San Diego is the best place to live. We ran through downtown together until we reached the climb out on the 163. He fell back and I didn't want to wait, so I charged ahead, a decision I would later regret. More on that...
Down the backside of the freeway, free falling into some kind of pace, though I had a stitch that viciously chewed away at my right side. By the time I saw Eric at mile 11, I futilely nibbled the pretzels he handed me. I knew it was a training run at that point. My legs were tired. Henry rode up next to me shortly after that point and hung on my shoulder until mile 21. We chatted like not a day had passed between our training runs, as if Florida had never come between us. He told me he is training for St. George and talked about his long runs about to begin. I couldn't really focus on what he was saying because I was feeling so bad between the stitch and then the stomach cramping that was starting. I felt nauseous, dizzy, out of sorts. I really felt light headed and tired. Mile 18 brought more friends from track. They were a welcome distraction from the pain as they cheered wildly for me. I stopped to chat for a while and it was heaven to simply stop running. On to mile 19 and I saw my friend Jody. She handed me a banana and I immediately handed it off to Henry. It was offensive to even look at that fruit, much less think about eating it.
I walked the water station at mile 19 where I was reunited with Gary walking through it, too. "I'm done, Quad," he told me. "My soleus is toast and I am done for the day. Let's take this one mile at a time." I told him my GI issues were back with a vengeance and he offered some kind of encouragement. I was in so much pain, I didn't even care. His words were meaningless, but his company was welcome. I think those earlier ambitious miles had caught up with me. I wasn't even looking at the clocks anymore and I really did not care what they read. We ran on with Henry chatting it up with Gary, since I had nothing to offer to the conversation anymore; I was out of air and out of witty things to say. I wanted to die, really. Then Theresa popped in around mile 20 plus. She was fresh and chipper, dancing around us, but I was so spent, I could barely muster a grin for her. I wanted to be anywhere but on that Ingram Bridge. I had not felt this bad since Long Beach Marathon years ago, and it was painful to relive it. I knew Marc was following me online and I knew he would be worried to see I had fallen so far off pace. I was worried I was not going to make it back to my kids, waiting for the report at Nana and Gramps' house.
Mile 21 and Gary grabbed my hand and lifted my arm as we passed under a photo opt. I had nothing. I told him I needed to walk and I wanted him to leave me. "I'm worried about you, So. Cal. I'll stay with you, really." I begged him to leave me and let me suffer in solitude because all I wanted was to walk in silence, so he did, reluctantly, leave me. I watched him trot out ahead and that was the last I saw of him that day because I literally walked every last step to the finish. I got to mile 22 and thought about pulling into a medical tent, but I knew they wouldn't let me continue. I couldn't go home without a medal or Owen would never let me hear the end of it. I felt as though I could literally lay down and take a nap...I was sleepy, tired, dizzy. I really wanted to take a power nap, but I couldn't very well do that roadside.
Mile 23 I thought I couldn't feel any worse, so I decided to open the Sports Beans I had in my back pocket. My head was spinning and my legs were sore. I ripped into the package and the smell about put me over the edge. I managed to put one, literally one, bean into my mouth and started to dry heave. I was wrong about not being able to feel any worse, because there I was at mile 24, pulled over and vomiting everything out of my stomach into the street with tons of spectators to witness the demise. As embarrassing and horrifying as this vomiting experience always is (though you think I would be used to it by now), I felt so much better. I actually really wanted to run the last two miles in, but every time I tried to move my legs in that fashion, my stomach would cramp so violently, I knew it was not a possibility. I continued my death march all the way to finish 4:36. Sadly, a new all time slow record. Before this, my worst marathon was 3:57 and I think that was shortly after giving birth to baby number two. Seeing my picture at the finish, I am hunched over in pain, because my stomach felt like the lining was being ripped out of it; to jostle it even a little when I skipped under the final clock was pure agony and sheer torture.
What went wrong? Well, I don't want to make any excuses for myself. I ran too hard coming out of the gates, I was not properly hydrated, and I put the nails in my coffin when I drank that sports drink. What was I thinking? I was thinking that my body felt tired, depleted, and I could not get my legs to fire. Really, I felt like I had no turn over at all, so I was hoping for a miracle in that drink. The miracle never came, only the GI distress.
What did I take away from this experience? I have great friends, a great husband who was cheering for me all the way, and a great town to experience it all in. What do I care about the time? I am a slacker, remember? When Abbe called me for the report that afternoon and I gave it to her, she chirped, without ever having read this blog or known of its existence, "YES! You are one of us now!" So what? I am happy to be in So Cal, even here now in Malibu, Home of the Freakishly Skinny, Land of the Botox. I love LA.
Gary and I had started off together with Tracy in the same corral. Trace left us almost immediately, and we bid her farewell. He and I talked and laughed about life in Vero, his troubled history with his wife of sorts, and how San Diego is the best place to live. We ran through downtown together until we reached the climb out on the 163. He fell back and I didn't want to wait, so I charged ahead, a decision I would later regret. More on that...
Down the backside of the freeway, free falling into some kind of pace, though I had a stitch that viciously chewed away at my right side. By the time I saw Eric at mile 11, I futilely nibbled the pretzels he handed me. I knew it was a training run at that point. My legs were tired. Henry rode up next to me shortly after that point and hung on my shoulder until mile 21. We chatted like not a day had passed between our training runs, as if Florida had never come between us. He told me he is training for St. George and talked about his long runs about to begin. I couldn't really focus on what he was saying because I was feeling so bad between the stitch and then the stomach cramping that was starting. I felt nauseous, dizzy, out of sorts. I really felt light headed and tired. Mile 18 brought more friends from track. They were a welcome distraction from the pain as they cheered wildly for me. I stopped to chat for a while and it was heaven to simply stop running. On to mile 19 and I saw my friend Jody. She handed me a banana and I immediately handed it off to Henry. It was offensive to even look at that fruit, much less think about eating it.
I walked the water station at mile 19 where I was reunited with Gary walking through it, too. "I'm done, Quad," he told me. "My soleus is toast and I am done for the day. Let's take this one mile at a time." I told him my GI issues were back with a vengeance and he offered some kind of encouragement. I was in so much pain, I didn't even care. His words were meaningless, but his company was welcome. I think those earlier ambitious miles had caught up with me. I wasn't even looking at the clocks anymore and I really did not care what they read. We ran on with Henry chatting it up with Gary, since I had nothing to offer to the conversation anymore; I was out of air and out of witty things to say. I wanted to die, really. Then Theresa popped in around mile 20 plus. She was fresh and chipper, dancing around us, but I was so spent, I could barely muster a grin for her. I wanted to be anywhere but on that Ingram Bridge. I had not felt this bad since Long Beach Marathon years ago, and it was painful to relive it. I knew Marc was following me online and I knew he would be worried to see I had fallen so far off pace. I was worried I was not going to make it back to my kids, waiting for the report at Nana and Gramps' house.
Mile 21 and Gary grabbed my hand and lifted my arm as we passed under a photo opt. I had nothing. I told him I needed to walk and I wanted him to leave me. "I'm worried about you, So. Cal. I'll stay with you, really." I begged him to leave me and let me suffer in solitude because all I wanted was to walk in silence, so he did, reluctantly, leave me. I watched him trot out ahead and that was the last I saw of him that day because I literally walked every last step to the finish. I got to mile 22 and thought about pulling into a medical tent, but I knew they wouldn't let me continue. I couldn't go home without a medal or Owen would never let me hear the end of it. I felt as though I could literally lay down and take a nap...I was sleepy, tired, dizzy. I really wanted to take a power nap, but I couldn't very well do that roadside.
Mile 23 I thought I couldn't feel any worse, so I decided to open the Sports Beans I had in my back pocket. My head was spinning and my legs were sore. I ripped into the package and the smell about put me over the edge. I managed to put one, literally one, bean into my mouth and started to dry heave. I was wrong about not being able to feel any worse, because there I was at mile 24, pulled over and vomiting everything out of my stomach into the street with tons of spectators to witness the demise. As embarrassing and horrifying as this vomiting experience always is (though you think I would be used to it by now), I felt so much better. I actually really wanted to run the last two miles in, but every time I tried to move my legs in that fashion, my stomach would cramp so violently, I knew it was not a possibility. I continued my death march all the way to finish 4:36. Sadly, a new all time slow record. Before this, my worst marathon was 3:57 and I think that was shortly after giving birth to baby number two. Seeing my picture at the finish, I am hunched over in pain, because my stomach felt like the lining was being ripped out of it; to jostle it even a little when I skipped under the final clock was pure agony and sheer torture.
What went wrong? Well, I don't want to make any excuses for myself. I ran too hard coming out of the gates, I was not properly hydrated, and I put the nails in my coffin when I drank that sports drink. What was I thinking? I was thinking that my body felt tired, depleted, and I could not get my legs to fire. Really, I felt like I had no turn over at all, so I was hoping for a miracle in that drink. The miracle never came, only the GI distress.
What did I take away from this experience? I have great friends, a great husband who was cheering for me all the way, and a great town to experience it all in. What do I care about the time? I am a slacker, remember? When Abbe called me for the report that afternoon and I gave it to her, she chirped, without ever having read this blog or known of its existence, "YES! You are one of us now!" So what? I am happy to be in So Cal, even here now in Malibu, Home of the Freakishly Skinny, Land of the Botox. I love LA.
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