Why Am I Doing a Half Marathon?

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I know, I know. I’ve been AWOL from my blog for over a month now. It’s not because I don’t love all of you or because I’ve grown weary of my minivan. The past month has been a bit busy:

1. I started a new job with a great company (hint: stay at a Westin or Sheraton during your next vacation!). I work from home, but there is a lot of travel. During the first three weeks I went to the West Coast, the East Coast, and the South.

2. The school year ended two days after I started the new job, and to our three young lovelies, #1 is irrelevant.

3. My training for the Team Challenge Half Marathon has kicked up about 10 notches.

Today, #3 is heavy on my mind, so I’m gonna write about that for a bit.

I’ll bet that you think I’m going to get all philosophical and sentimental about my reasons for doing the half marathon, huh? The title of this blog isn’t a reference to my reasons why – if you want to know all the details behind it, you can click on the link on the sidebar (and feel free to donate generously to the Crohn’s & Colitis Foundation of America). The title refers to what I have wailed to myself on many occasions: “Why am I doing this? What the h#$% was I thinking?”

It started off innocently enough. Run for a cause that has personal meaning to me and get in shape during the process. Sounds good, sign me up. But now that the race is getting closer (2 weeks!), I’m having doubts, big time. I’ve posted triumphant Facebook updates after each long run (“Ran 10 miles before sunrise!”), but what I don’t post is how hard the runs are for me. Muscles hurt that I didn’t know I had. I’m slower than everyone else that’s out running, especially those young girls in the sports bras who run 10 miles/hour and never sweat (Seriously? Are they androids?). And my inner critic is having the time of her life, whispering all sorts of things in my head like “You have no business trying to run…You’re old and slow….The kids in your 7th grade PE class were right about you….And what’s up with your hair?”

Today’s 10 mile run felt like a complete disaster. It’s hot & humid, I “bonked out” around mile 6, and I had to stop and walk a lot. I felt like a failure. I even cried when I got home, because I felt that I was letting James & the girls down.

Pity, party of one? You’re table is ready, with your special order of whine and cheese.

So where is the Minivan lesson in all of this? I’m not giving up. I’m going to take my two rest days, and get back out there again on Tuesday. I will be at the half marathon. I may not finish under 2:30 hours, and I may even need to walk a lot of it. But I will cross the finish line. That’s what I want the girls to see – that even though the journey has been difficult and I’ve wanted to give up, I kept pushing forward to the finish. When they’re faced with their own difficult journeys, I hope they remember the time that Mama finished a half marathon, and they’ll know they can handle their challenges.

Oh yeah – since the half marathon is in Napa Valley, I will have wine and cheese at the after party, thank you! And my inner critic can put on her sports bra and run off with the rest of the androids!

It’s My Project, And I’ll Cry If I Want To

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It was 10:30 pm, my favorite time of the evening. All was quiet on the Elder front, and I was in my most unsexy pajama set with the owls all over it, ready to watch a little late night TV before bed. I left the bedroom to get a glass of water, when I heard a little sniffle. One of our lovely 14 year old twins was in the family room with her laptop, looking really unhappy and very much like a scared little 6 year old . All of my senses screamed, “Don’t make eye contact! Get your water and retreat to your bedroom, stat!”, but of course I looked over at her, and asked her what was wrong. She lifted her sad, red, eyes and said those fatal words: “Mama, can you help me with my project?” We spent the next 90 minutes brainstorming, Googling, Wikipedia-ing, and cross-referencing, mixed in with some bickering, whining, and complaining – by me.

I can’t begin to count the number of school projects that I, I mean, we, worked on over the years. On some of them, I was the Trusted Advisor, dispensing a little guidance here and there. Those were the easy ones. On a lot of them, I was an Equal Partner, inching towards owning a majority stake in the success. On every one I was definitely the Venture Capitalist, providing unlimited funds and going on many trips to Target or Michael’s 15 minutes before closing time, searching for glue sticks and stock paper.

The big question is – how much of their projects should we, as parents, do? Now I know the “correct” answer is that our kids should do everything themselves, but come on! Let’s be honest here. How many of us can resist the urge to help them “tweak” their work just a tad, or give them access to some materials or a resource that will move that project from B level work to A+? And we all know the parents who had their Research & Development team at work build little Juniorette’s science project. I never went that far, I promise.

As much as I whine about working on our girls’ projects, I admit that I get caught up in giving them a little somethin’ somethin’ that will give them an edge. To their credit, the girls know where to draw the line if I go too far. A few years ago, our oldest daughter was preparing a speech for a debate competition, and I volunteered to take a look at it. I became the Texas Chainsaw Editor, slashing through entire sentences with my red pen, changing verb tenses, and rewriting paragraphs. She took one look at my handiwork, gave me a steely stare, and said, “We’re 14, Mama! We don’t sound like that!” I forgot that it wasn’t my project, and I slunk back into my cage.

I know it’s their project, but I still feel a little responsibility to help them when they need me. They deserve full credit for all the work they put in. But can I get an Executive Producer credit, at least?

True Confession: I Get Angry

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I haven’t posted a blog lately – no excuses, but I apologize for keeping you hanging. I also had a very different topic planned about Mother’s Day, but I’m interrupting my normal programming to bring you something even more transparent and soul-baring. Here goes….

I’m furious at one of my daughters. Livid, even. There, I said it.

The argument started innocently enough this morning, over returning a pair of shoes. We went from talking about the shoes, to yelling accusations of being disrespectful, dismissive, and downright mean (near the front door so the neighbors will really think we’re barbarians). I won’t get into the details, because I’m still feeling self-righteous and my account of events will be very one-sided and reek of “I’m right”-ness.

I really hate fighting with the girls. I tend to be passive-aggressive and would rather pout, mumble snarky comments under my breath, and give the silent treatment (which doesn’t work with three “ in-your-face” teenagers). Then, after I calm down, I want to run around and make amends like someone on a 12-step parenting program.

Guess you can tell I don’t handle conflict very well. I’m a work in progress and am getting better, but occasionally I backslide like I did today.

I have approximately 7 hours while they’re at school to go through my stages of grief over the argument:

1. Denial — “We didn’t fight – we had a very loud, spirited discussion. Nothing is bothering me. I’m not mad.”
2. Anger — “Why me? I’m a good mother! How could she treat me so badly! I ought to send her to live with her grandparents!” (Put a big, red “You Are Here” dot on this one).
3. Bargaining — “If I take the shoes back and I tell her I’m sorry for yelling she’ll love me again.”
4. Depression — “I’m so sad, why bother? She won’t love me anymore. I’ll just watch ‘Scandal’ on my DVR in the dark and eat jellybeans in bed.”
5. Acceptance — “I lost my temper and I’m sorry about that, but it’s not the end of our relationship. Now woman-up, get in the minivan, and pick the girls up from school.”

So now you know one of my dirty little secrets. I get angry and upset with the girls. They get angry and upset with me. We’ll get past it, probably with apologies from both sides. And we’ll roll on.

Keeping up with the Kids

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Have you ever tried to convince your kids – and yourself – that you are just as cool as they are? That you are “fly” and “down? (and that you even know words like “fly” and “down”)? That you can keep up with them?

I’ll admit that I fall into that trap with our girls, more often than not. I use their slang sometimes. I’m intrigued by the latest school gossip and remember the names of some of the main characters. I’ll even listen to their music in small doses, although I switch the minivan radio back to my Old School R&B station when I can get away with it. I WON’T wear their clothing styles, though – I’ll keep Forever 21 sacred for them alone. The girls don’t mind my attempts to be like them, unless I embarrass them in public (like the time I called our minivan the “swagger wagon” in front of their friends. I got a good talking-to about that one).

This morning I was out for a run when I crossed paths with the high school boys track team. Most of them were way ahead of me, but there were a few stragglers who were behind me and gaining fast. Did I move to the side and let them pass? Hell-to-the-no! I sped up to an all-out run and kept just in front of them for a block until I turned into our subdivision. And what did I get for that round of “anything you can do, I can do better”? A side stitch and a few seconds of blurry vision from sheer exhaustion. Honestly, I wasn’t trying to prove that I could beat those guys (ok, maybe a wee bit). I wanted to show that I wouldn’t be passed by. I wanted to keep up.

Where does that need to keep up with a younger generation come from? We’ve all seen those movies where parents and kids do a role-reversal, and “madcap hilarity ensues.” Maybe, somewhere in my subconscious, I want to relive those teen years and have a do-over. Do it right, this time. Be cool.

Well guess what? I did my teenage years already, the good, the bad, and the pimply. Having teenagers does not give me a do-over of my young life. But it does give me perspective on my life now. That need to “be cool” is something I still struggle with, but now I recognize it. I see the girls fall into that way of thinking sometimes, and I can relate and help them work through it. I don’t have to be the girls to understand them.

True confession – it felt good to stay in front of those boys on the track team this morning! Let’s just pretend that they didn’t slow way down to let me have my moment of victory.

They are NOT me

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I try very hard to relate to our daughters. Sometimes I try too hard. I find myself examining my teenage life with a microscope, looking for any situation that seems similar to something the girls are going through. And then, before I can stop myself, I say the five words that make my daughters cringe:

“When I was your age….”

My intentions are good. I want them to know that I understand. I get it. I can help. But, for some mysterious reason, all my good intentions fall flat on their you-know-what. I get the glazed over stare and polite silence, sometimes served with a side of eye rolls. This doesn’t happen all the time, but often enough. It usually ends with me feeling pouty and left out. Very mature, I know.

I finally understand that my “When I was your age” doesn’t really connect with my daughters – it invalidates them. I made them feel that I was comparing myself to them, and that they were coming up short. I was taking away their experience and making it all about me.

Ouch.

I have to remind myself often that they are not me. They’re entitled to their own experiences and life lessons. James and I are here to guide, protect, discipline, love, etc., but not to live their lives for them. I still fall into the “When I was your age” trap at times, but I’m working to listen more to what they have to say before I interject.

And sometimes, if I’m very, very quiet, one of them will creep up to my side and softly ask, “Did this ever happen when you were my age?” Ah, Heaven.

Here we go!

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Since this is my first blog entry, I thought I would give you a bit of an intro about us. James & I have been married for over 20 years, and our lives have been a real adventure. Our family grew from two (“I do!”), to three (“Congratulations, it’s a girl!”) to five (“You’re having twin girls? !”). Guess we have a thing for prime numbers – glad we didn’t go for 7, 11, etc. If anyone had tried to tell me what life would be like with three itty bitty girls under age 3, I wouldn’t have believed them. And I definitely wouldn’t have believed any predictions about life with three teenage girls!

Our daughters are 16, 14, and 14, and every day is an X-chromosome fest. Makeup, hair paraphernalia, and various & sundry girl-debris litter our house. I know more about their friends’ latest drama than I do about my own. They’ve tried to teach me how to Dougie, Wobble, and Bernie, all to no avail. And don’t get me started on boys — I’ll save that topic for another post.

I’ve logged 1000s of miles in the minivan with the girls, shuttling them to dance classes, basketball games, track meets, study groups, etc. The minivan has been our own little bubble, where we feel safe to fully express ourselves. We’ve had some great conversations, tearful arguments, and moments of profound silliness, all in the van. And I’ve learned SO much about those three marvelous young women I’m blessed to call my daughters and about myself as a mother.

I’m so excited to share my journey with you! I hope you can relate to some of my misadventures, and know that you’re not alone in your minivan tales. And please, feel free to comment and share some of your thoughts!

So…here we go!