The rose that grew from concrete

I thought I would share some of my favorite lyrics below.  Lyrics that I relate to very much.  Lyrics that help me celebrate who I am on days when my damaged petals seem to get the best of me.  On the days where I see those petals as weaknesses, and not the strengths that they are.  On days when I forget to celebrate my tenacity and remember the past is a place from which we came, but it does not define me.  Everybody has a story.  Everyone has overcome obstacles in their life.

Long live all the roses that grew from concrete.

Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature’s laws wrong it learned how to walk without having feet
Funny it seems but, by keeping its dreams
it, learned to breathe FRESH air
Long live the rose that grew from concrete
when no one else even cared
No one else even cared..
The rose that grew from concrete

You see you wouldn’t ask why the rose that grew from the concrete
had damaged petals. On the contrary, we would all celebrate its
tenacity. We would all love it’s will to reach the sun.
Well, we are the rose – this is the concrete – and these are
my damaged petals.  Don’t ask me why, thank God, ask me how!

~Tupac Shakur

 

A decade of love

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10 years ago I met my now husband.  It was his 19th birthday, and my first time at a bar.  My husband isn’t and wasn’t a drinker (unless we’re talking protein shakes), so it’s a bit ironic that we met how we did.  I guess it was meant to be.  We were 19 year old kids, who didn’t realize we were about to meet the person we’d spend the rest of our lives with.  After 6 months of him calling me (he’d tell you a different version of this story I’m sure!), I finally agreed to go on a date with him.  I always wondered what HE saw in ME.  I soon realized the person I had stumbled upon, and quickly fell head over heels.  He was the type of person who knew exactly what he wanted out of life, and had a plan to get it.  He was the guy who as a teenager, saved up all his money and bought himself a car.  He worked all the time (except for the nights I’d convince him to call in sick).  He saw the big picture.  Me?  I was unemployed with $5 in my account (If I was lucky), and I rode the bus.  I didn’t know what I’d be doing the next week, not to mention the next year, or in ten years.

Physically, he was a much smaller version of himself.  He was always very athletic and fit, even as a 19 year old kid.  Can you believe the first thing I ever said to him was, “Oh my goodness, do you workout”?  And I was serious when I asked.  I had never touched an arm like this, and was so surprised at how firm it was.  Yes – embarrassing but completely true story.  His abs were ripped, and his face chiseled (sounds good, doesn’t it!)  But he was certainly not the beast of a man that he is now, if you can believe that.  The past 10 years have worn well on him.  Sadly, I cannot say the same for myself.  Yes, I know I had a baby 6 months ago (can’t believe it’s been that long!), and that pregnancy is a valid reason for the body to experience a bit of a downslide – I’m still working on body-after-baby.  To make me feel better I’d like to attribute my husbands more-attractive-10-years-later-body to good genes, testosterone or some other act of fate.  But, anyone who knows him knows none of those are responsible.  The bottom line is that he is the man he is today because of hard work.  I have seen him consistently work hard, literally for 10 years.  And his body is proof of that.  The 19 year old that I met knew what he wanted to be, and if I was the judge, I’d say he reached his goals.

I didn’t know then how life would turn out, and I couldn’t have predicted that boy at the bar would end up being the love of my life.  So much has happened over the last decade.  We have loved and lost.  We have stumbled, taken steps forward and back.  We have grown, changed for better and worse, and learned so much about life, love, family and each other.  Our life together started in a small bachelor apartment.  I was barely able to pay rent, living on mac and cheese and Mr. Noddles – dry.  (Oh the good ‘ol days of college).  And now, 10 years later we are husband and wife with a little boy, and live in the home we plan to raise our family in.  We are more in love than ever before.  Time has grown our respect for each other, and the people we are, and what we contribute to our relationship.  We are very different people in many ways, but we have the same goals.  We believe in the same things, and agree on what is really important in life.  So at the end of the day it doesn’t really matter that I love pizza, and he loves chicken.  It works.  We work.

Having a baby can be hard on a relationship, but it has made us stronger.  It is still a challenge for me to balance being a mom, and then shut off that side, clean off my dirty shirt, become a wife and attempt to have an adult conversation.  But I’m working on it!  Nick supported me when I was a self proclaimed “crazy person” right after Deacus was born.  Sleep deprived and miserable, and his love for me didn’t waiver.  I remember shaking my head at him when he said I’d feel like myself again, and saying to him, “You don’t undersand.  I am not the same.  I am not the woman you married, and you deserve better”.  I really thought at the time that I’d feel “crazy” forever and that he should go find a better wife (yes, THAT is how crazy I felt).  Thankfully he was right, and those feelings passed and I returned to a new version of myself.  But even during the lowest time of my life, he never questioned who I was, or that we would be ok.  He told me he knew me, and that he believed in who I am even though I didn’t.  The best part – he meant it.  He wasn’t just trying to say what I needed to hear, and I could feel that from him.  I wouldn’t have survived those first few weeks without him.  THAT is a good husband, and dad.  And I am blessed.

Our love has spanned a decade.  I still can’t believe it’s been that long and that we are now the adults.  Where does the time go?  Life is so full of uncertainty, but the one thing that always remains, is love.  I am certain that we will continue to have our ups and downs, like any healthy relationship.  And I am also certain that we will continue to get through anything that comes our way, and that we will spend the rest of our lives together.  Don’t believe me?  I’ll prove it to you in 40 or so more years.

Proudly Imperfect…breaking the silence

Let’s get right to it.  I am not perfect.  There, I said it.  Do you like me any less?  Should I feel embarrassed?  I have never pretended to be anything but me, and I don’t apologize for my imperfection.  In fact, I don’t strive for perfection.  It’s not that I’m intentionally less than the best I can be.  But I sure do make mistakes along the way, LOTS of them.  I’ve never been one of those people who always says or does the right thing at exactly the right time, my jokes aren’t always that funny (though I am pretty good at making my 6 month old giggle), and I have a long list of less than perfect traits that I am sure will stay with me for the rest of my life.  I still don’t have the body I expected to have by 6 months post-baby.  I am still trying to find balance, and remember that I am also a wife and my husband needs me too (and I him).  I am not a perfect mom.  But I promise you, I try hard every day to be a great mom, and I am learning as I go.  And isn’t that good enough?  I think so. 

I have had so many women reach out to me privately, and thank me for my honesty.  I love and appreciate the comments, and knowing that others relate to what I am going through.  It also helps remind me when I am unsure, that I am somewhat “normal” and that what I’m writing doesn’t sound completely abserd to those reading it.  Well, maybe it does to some people, but thankfully I have yet to hear from them!  I am so shocked and saddened that taking candidly about these topics is considered rare.  Why, if so many women are going through or have gone through the same thing, don’t more of us talk about it?  I completely understand those who don’t want to talk, and certainly don’t want or need to advertise their “problems” all over the internet in order to deal with them (yes, I am a bit crazy for doing so).  I respect that 100%.  Those women aside, why are so many women who want to talk about it, suffering in silence?  I had many women tell me they had not even discussed (or admitted) their challenges with their closest of friends and family.  Is it embarrassment?  The need to maintain the illusion of perfection?  Or simply the hope that if we don’t talk about it, one day we will wake up and life will be perfect again?  I remember reaching out to everyone, and anyone I could early on, and not one woman I spoke with said she had an easy time with post-partum.  Thankfully they were honest with me when I asked.  And after chatting our conversations usually ended with the two questions: “Why don’t more people talk about these things” and “Why didn’t anyone warn me”?  I have asked these questions myself MANY times since having my son.  And what is the answer??  Why didn’t anyone tell me about the road ahead?  I don’t know that I’d have believed them anyways, but I’d have appreciated having the information prior to crashing and burning on my own.  I don’t blame anyone for not sharing.  I mean, how do you bring that up?  “Oh by the way, I know you think your life is going to be wonderful, but in fact, after having your baby your life is going to suck really bad for a while.  If you’re one of the lucky ones it will only hurt for a few weeks, but some suffer for years.  Have a nice day!”  Why does our society tell us that it’s wrong to feel these things, and that as moms and wives we have to be perfect or we are failing?  Well sorry “society”, that doesn’t work for me.  I am proud to be imperfect, and anyone who is perfect can feel free to judge me now.

Everyday I wake up, and do the best that I can.  I tell myself that today is going to be a good day.  Surprisingly, this type of self talk actually helped me out a great deal during some of my more difficult, sleep deprived days.  And at the end of a rough day, when I am completely exhausted for no particular reason, I tell myself that tomorrow will be better.  And it usually is.  And then there are the days when everything goes perfectly well, and I feel guilty because I have a great life, and a wonderful husband and son, and yet somehow I still feel tired and wonder if I’m doing a good job.  These moments come and go.  I am sure they always will.  Life isn’t like it was.  There is no pause button.  There are no days off, and even “relaxing” doesn’t quite have the same meaning when your mind is always working overtime.  Is he breathing?  Am I doing the right things for my baby?  Will he grow up to be happy?  Soon I have to send him off without me to school (he’s 6 months old).  Will he be a good person?  Does he know he’s loved?

Being a mother is much harder than I could’ve imagined.  But I love it.  Many people told me I would, but I didn’t believe them.  The other day my husband told me he couldn’t ask for a better mother for his son, and I cried.  We moms try so hard, and feel so much pressure and guilt.  It helps me to know that we are all in this together.  I am doing a good job, and my baby is going to turn out just fine…better than just fine.

I am not perfect.  I don’t want to be.  I am a great wife, a great mother.  And I am proudly imperfect.

73lbs and counting

40+ weeks pregnant ~ 6 weeks after baby ~ 5 months after baby

Looking back it doesn’t shock me at all that I had extreme back pain during the second and third trimester.  I have no idea how I even managed to walk with all those extra lbs weighing me down.  At the time I really had no idea that I had packed on so much additional weight.  I stopped weighing myself about halfway through my pregnancy, knowing I wouldn’t like what I saw.  I knew I was large, but looking back at the pictures now, it is surreal.  I can’t believe that was my body, and that the little guy I wake up to everyday, was living in there.  During my pregnancy I even outgrew my maternity clothes and ended up in my husbands track pants and t-shirts by 8 months.  By the very end I couldn’t sit upright in my chair at work, and the only activity I did was the 20 minute workout I’d have to get my butt up off the couch (where I spent much of my time), to get to the bathroom.  This wasn’t quite how I pictured it to be.  I thought I’d be all cute and skinny, with just a belly.  I don’t know why I thought that, since I have never had a hard time putting on weight.  In fact, I am somewhat of an expert.  It’s definitely a skill I’ve mastered throughout my life, and pregnancy helped a lot.  I had no motivation to get to the gym or put down the chocolate bar when I knew I’d just continue gaining weight anyways.  Sure, it was fun at the time.  Wait, NO it wasn’t.  There was a small window early on, before the weight caught up with me, that was quite enjoyable.  I had that cute little belly I had always imagined, and enjoyed looking pregnant, but still fitting into my cute clothes.  I don’t recall when exactly it happened, but I woke up one morning and was 93lbs heavier.  I remember I could hardly have a conversation because I was so short of breath.  I had to take breaks in my sentences to breathe.  I’d be panting by the time I made it to the top of the stairs.  I even hurt my shoulder pretty badly from trying to push all that weight up off the couch so many times (pathetic, I know!).  I couldn’t get up without a good push (It took a few months for the shoulder to heal).  Now, 5 months after baby, I am still working hard to undo the havoc that the weight wreaked on my body, and my life.  After months of balancing baby and fitness, I am down 73lbs, with 20lbs to go to reach my pre-baby weight!  Yes – 73lbs.  If only I was Jessica Simpson, I’d have made myself 4 million by now!  To put this into perspective, this is the equivalent of a Golden Retriever, a 9 year old child or a smart car.  Basically, it’s a lot!  I’m very aware that it’s my own fault, and I should’ve listened to my husband when he said to put down the pizza (and the pie and the donuts).  I was offended at the time.  How dare he tell ME what to eat!  Afterall, I was pregnant, and my baby was hungry! (VERY hungry!)  But as usual he was right (so annoying! lol).  He knew I was digging myself into a hole that would not be easy to get out of.  He knew I would face an uphill battle like nothing I had experienced before.  But at the time I felt entitled, as a pregnant woman, to eat what I wanted.  And truthfully, I always worried when I was hungry, that it meant my baby was hungry.  Yes, I ate the healthy stuff too, and took my prenatal vitamins to make sure baby was getting what he needed.  But then I added dessert, another round of pizza, and maybe a small cake or tub of ice cream.  Yes, I am embellishing a wee bit but you get the point.  At the time I thought if I had to do it over again, I’d do the same thing.  It was the one time in my life that it was OK to gain weight and no one would judge me.  Well, that is true.  Besides being asked MANY times if I was expecting twins, no one thought twice about the pregnant chick being a bit rotund.  But, I can say without question now that if I had to do it all over again, I would definitely not do the same thing.  These past 5 months have been the most physically challenging of my life.  I vow to never dig myself into such a hole again, pregnant or not.  I’m fairly certain that I’ll never be the girl that gains the “average” 30ish lbs during pregnancy.  But this whole 93lbs thing is a bit ridiculous!  I took pictures while I was pregnant, watching the belly (and everything else) grow.  I’ve started doing the same now, in reverse.  I am still shocked to see what I looked like.  I remember not wanting to leave the house because I was so embarrassed of what I looked like.  I couldn’t even fit into my “fat clothes” after I gave birth.  I remember being so worried that people would think I was still pregnant.  But to see the pictures now, it is shocking to me.  I am still embarrassed to look at them, and more embarrassed to share them (What am I thinking putting these up!)  But it’s an important part of my journey, and a motivation for me to keep going.  I have a long way to go.  20lb weight loss is no easy thing for me.  All I can do now is move forward.  20lbs to go…I think I can.

Dodging caterpillars…the journey continues

I am not a motivational speaker, or someone who claims to know it all when it comes to fitness, babies or life in general.  I am just here trying to openly and honestly share my experiences.  For me the journey, with its ups and downs, might even be more important to me than the end result.  I love what writing allows me to do.  I can get my thoughts out, and work through my challenges on paper (cyber paper of course).  And if as a result of this writing I am able to reach someone who is struggling too, then what a wonderful gift that is.  I try to end all my posts with something positive.  As you have read, my life is far from perfect (Who wants to read about perfection anyways?).  But I definitely think it’s important to see the good that comes from the lows, and celebrate the highs.  Otherwise this blog is all for not.  The purpose is not to complain, but to work through each battle the best way I know how, and move on to the next one knowing I am a better me than before.

Today’s journey started with an earlier than normal run.  There is not much that feels better than hitting the pavement first thing in the morning.  I love completing the workout early and enjoying the rest of the day, guilt free.  I don’t love treadmills, but have been limited to indoor training for the last while due to childcare.  Today was my first outdoor run in weeks.  I was a bit nervous.  Can I even handle an outdoor run anymore?  I find I lose my fitness fast if I am not dilligent with my training.  Sometimes transitioning from indoor to outdoor is a bit of a struggle for me.  Outside there are other factors to consider; wind, hills, heat.  Not quite the same as running in the air conditioning at a regulated speed.  Today the weather was more mild than days past, but the sun was still beating down on me.  Dripping sweat within minutes, as usual, I set out on my usual route.  Within minutes I knew without a doubt that today was going to be a good day.  My pace was faster than I had run ever, since having Deacus, and I felt good.  No weird aches and pains like in runs past.  Sure, very quickly I was hot and tired, but I also knew I could push through it.  This was a big deal for me.  A major step in me realizing that I could handle the pain and make it home alive.  I’ve realized that the pain of physically pushing your body never goes away.  What I’ve noticed is that the most fit people I know, are those who learn to deal with the pain and exhaustion and not quit.  It’s not that they don’t feel it, it’s that they embrace it and use it to fuel themselves.  Sure the body becomes more fit as I workout, but there is always going to be a new pain as I push my body to its next level.  As I set out today, I told myself I needed to shave some time off my run.  My next race is in less than 9 weeks, and I do not plan on seeing those police cars again!  I had been consistently running 5km in 38 minutes – not exactly record breaking time.  My goal was to get that down to 30 minutes by the October run.  As I’ve said before, I was never a “runner”.  Just someone who enjoys what running has come to represent in my life.  I love what it does to my body, my confidence and most of all, my mental health.  I didn’t break records before baby and I won’t now.  My goals have always been personal ones.  Before being able to accomplish my 10km time goal, my 5km time needed drastic improvement.  I ran down the empty road, focused, convincing myself every few steps that I could do it.  My throat burned as I ran to my max, but I wasn’t stopping today.  Head down, mentally ignoring the hills ahead, dodging the caterpillars at my feet.  I felt myself running out of steam with a kilometer left to go.  I told myself to just keep moving my legs.  And I did.  When I got home I felt like I had just won the lottery.  What this run represented was so much more than just shaving a few minutes off my time.  It represented a huge accomplishment for me, in this life-long journey I’m on.  It showed me that I am strong.  It showed me that the hard work I’ve been putting in at the gym is paying off.  It showed me that the girl I used to be is still inside of me, and is ready to come out and play.  So what was my time?  32 min, 30 seconds.  6 minutes less than my previous post-baby best.  Yes, I still have weight to lose, and a ways to go to reach my ultimate goals, but I am proud of who I am becoming and the person my son will grow up to know.  Today is a good day.

Sunshine and roses

The last number of weeks have been less than notable, as far as my fitness life goes.  In fact, not only do I feel I haven’t made any progress, I actually feel like I am going backwards lately.  I still look, and feel like I did a month or more ago.  I am definitely not where I thought I would be at almost 5 months out from Deacus’ arrival.  I’d love to have a really great excuse that would help me justify my lackluster performance.  However, I don’t have a thing to complain about, or a single excuse to explain my recent lack of motivation.  My little man is sleeping very well.  He is a happy boy, and I look foward to seeing his smile every day.  HE is not even close to being the problem.  Yes, of course there are still challenges with managing life with a fairly new baby (5 months – wow, where did the time go!) and trying to get fit.  But I find the baby challenges now to be much less extreme than those I experienced early on.  The craziness that comes with a new baby has faded with time, and I have adjusted well (I think) to my new “normal”.  The extreme sleep deprivation is gone (knock on wood).  Sure, I still don’t feel rested like I used to.  I can deal with that.  No, I don’t have hours of free time to do as I wish and I can’t just pick up and go to the gym whenever the mood should strike.  Life as a mom is busy.  My day is consumed by feedings, snuggles, naps, playtime and repeat.  But my lack of time is a managable obstacle, and my days with Deacus can be tiring, but are a lot of fun.  So, why can’t I get my hexagon butt out there to exercise?  Yes – hexagon.  Since having a baby that is the shape that best describes what my rear end looks like now.  Oh how I dream of someday having a nice round, apple bottom.

So, what’s going on with me?  What IS the problem?  When I take an honest look at myself, the answer becomes clear.  It’s ME.  Ouch – that hurt a little to admit.  I lack motivation.  Ouch – that hurt too.  I so badly want to come up with a better reason, but there quite simply isn’t one.  I have never been someone who wakes up every day and thinks the world is made up of sunshine and roses.  Though I do sometimes wish I could be like that, it’s just not me.  Sure, I try to be positive.  I don’t find much good ever comes from being negative.  Especially now that I have a little guy, who I hope lives in a world full of rainbows.  But I still struggle.  I try to be strong and find the motivation within myself to continue on this journey, but sometimes I need a little…or maybe a lot of help.  Now the important question: How do I move forward?  I need re-focus and remember why I am on this road.  As I write this, I start to remember why I started this journey in the first place.  Sure, I could’ve given up after I packed on those 93lbs.  And surely with a baby at home, I can find enough excuses to not workout, and surround myself with people who will encourage my laziness, and tell me it’s ok to give up on myself.  But that’s also not me.  I don’t want THIS life to be acceptable for me.  I don’t want to feel bad about who I am now and try to convince myself it’s ok because “I’m a mom now”.  It’s so much more than just physical to me.  Though I will SO enjoy the day that I get back into those skinny jeans.  But more importantly than those jeans, I want my son to grow up in a world where excuses are not an option.  I want him to live in a world where he knows he can accomplish the impossible.  I want him to believe that he has the power to choose who he becomes, and to be proud of who he is.  And who better to set the example, than mom and dad?  Lucky for him (and me) his father is one of the most inspirational people I’ve ever known.  Time for me to hold up my end of the bargain.  Time to remember what is important to me, and get back on track with my fitness goals.  Yes, my body still hurts every time I run.  But I can handle it.  I have aches and pains that I’m not sure will ever go away.  But I can handle it.  I am tired and far from being “fit”.  But I refuse to let this be who I am for the rest of my life.  I know there is no fairy dust that I can sprinkle so that I wake up tomorrow and my challenges are magically gone.  But I can re-focus my efforts.  I can continue to remind myself who I am, and who I want to be.  I can keep a promise I made to myself and my son, that I will overcome these obstacles, and continue to make myself better.  I will surround myself with others who strive to make themselves better.  Those who encourage me when I need it the most.  Those who understand my efforts, and the great impact these challenges and accomplishments have on my life.  I WILL get back to a place where I am proud of who I am (and I will keep telling myself that, until I believe it).  Tomorrow is a new day.

So here’s to finding my own sunshine and roses…

Running from the police, my bitter-sweet accomplishment

June 17th was the big day!  My first 10km race since having Deacus.  He was just over 3 months old, and my training had commenced 8 weeks prior.  This was also my husbands first Father’s Day, and I so badly wanted to make him and my son proud.  This was the first time I had ever felt nervous for a race.  I had visions of me passing out mid-run, or breaking an ankle or something ridiculous and being removed from the course by medical personnel.  I no longer felt I blended in nicely with the crowd.  I felt like a noticably overweight woman that the “runners” would look at and wonder what I was doing there.  And really, what was I doing there???  Whose idea was this??  I was starting to second guess this whole thing.  Maybe I should come back in a few more months when there was less on me that jiggled as I ran.  It’s Incredible the hit my confidence took since my outter self changed.  Even getting ready for the race was traumatic.  Of course my clothes still don’t fit.  I am stuck somwwhere between needing maternity clothes and fitting comfortably into my old ones.  I tried a few options prior to the race.  I had made the mistake years back of wearing new pants to a run, and can I say, BAD idea!  I thought jumping up and down to test them out would work just fine.  It doesn’t.  My butt crack was exposed most of the run.  I spent most of my time pulling my pants up rather than running.  So this time, I was smart.  I ran in a few different pairs to see how they faired.  I am not sure if it is the hormones, or just the new me post-baby, but I sweat like a beast now.  Yes, I know, very attractive.  It doesn’t matter what I’m doing.  I could be sitting still, walking, or of course running.  Another consideration when choosing pants that I was never concerned with before.  I had tried out a pair of cotton pants, the type I had been running in all along.  High waisted so no crack issues.  They felt ok.  I could definitely feel the inner thighs rubbing in a way they don’t in “real” exercise gear, and I was definitely sweating in all the wrong places. But, I didn’t have much of a choice.  I was still trying to avoid investing in an expensive, large-sized pair of running pants that would (hopefully) only fit me for a short while longer.  When I arrived home after one of my practice runs, Nick and Deacus greeted me out front.  My face was bright red as it always gets when I workout, and had sweat dripping down it.  I could tell Nick wanted to say something, but was holding back.  “What”?  I asked him.  He is much more cautious of things he says to me, post-baby.  You never know when a harmless comment could upset me and send me into a crying fit.  OK, it’s not like that anymore.  The hormones have balanced back out now, but I can tell he is still traumatized from months prior.  “Did you pee your pants”?  He says.  I looked down and see a large, very visible wet spot.  How embarrassing!  After a good laugh I replied, that No, I hadn’t pee my pants!  (Luckily for me that is not one of my issues post baby).  But these pants were definitely out!  The last thing I needed was to have people wondering if I had wet myself at the race.  So, that was it.  Time to suck it up and head to the mall.  A place I had not been since getting pregnant.  (I’ll tell you later about the joys of shopping with a baby, in a non-baby friendly world).  After a relatively trauma free shopping experience, I ended up with some new (moisture wicking) pants.  No more “pee” stains for me.  The day of the race I suited up.  Getting ready was a different experience for me than ever before.  Rather than tossing my hair up and throwing on my clothes, and arriving a half hour early (as I always used to) I had a much more hectic morning ahead of me.  We had to figure out when to wake, feed, change and pack up the little guy, as well as get myself ready – mentally and physically.  I am not one to breastfeed in public in the middle of a stadium with hundreds of people watching, so there were some things to consider that I hadn’t had to before.  After getting everything figured out the night before and the morning going well, we were right on schedule and on our way.  It was almost time.  I lined up amongst a crowd of stick-thin athletes in short shorts and tanks.  Me in my t-shirt and long pants.  OK, they weren’t all dressed that way but in my insecure mind I felt that I was the odd one out.  The horn sounded and we were off.  My stomache was turning.  Even though I had just visited the womens washroom (after being in line for 30 minutes of course), and did not need to go right now, I felt like maybe I did!  Nick took Deacus for a walk (he had plenty of time!) as I tried to keep up with the crowd.  I felt good, I was doing well – so I thought.  I knew my time wasn’t going to be incredible, but my goal was just to get back out there and complete this run.  I had yet to do a 10km without at least a little bit of walking, so I had planned to do the same on race day.  I just wanted to make it to the end without the assistance of EMS.  About halfway through the race I noticed less and less people behind me.  Hmmm…I wasn’t running THAT slow, was I?  I knew my time to the second, glancing at my GPS watch often.  I just kept moving my legs, trying to focus on my goal and not all of the people passing me.  About 7km into the run I looked behind me again.  No one.  Oh dear.  The pride and feeling of accomplishment that I thought I would feel for doing this race, quickly faded away to embarrassment.  Could I possibly be in last place?  I kept moving and made my way to a turn around point to head back to the stadium.  It was then that I saw it.  The police car that follows at the end of the race to ensure there are no runners left on the road.  Thankfully, in front of him were a few other stragglers also struggling to make it back to home base.  I felt mortified.  A few tough km’s later I was there.  I made my way into the stadium, for the final run around the track to the finish line.  My legs were moving, but barely.  My strides were short.  Here where I used to be able to sprint to the finish, I barely lifted my feet off the ground.  A couple in their 50’s cheered for me as I ran past.  They obviously could tell I needed that push, and their encouragement brought tears to my eyes.  There to greet me at the finishline were my wonderful husband and son, and my brother-in-law and niece.  All of them waving and cheering me on.  They handed me my finishers medal, and all of a sudden it was worth it.  My husband told me it was amazing what I had accomplished and that he doubts there were many other people out there had a baby 3 months ago.  It was then that remembered what I was doing out there. THAT is why I run.  Not to be the best runner out there, but to be the best runner I can be, and be the best me I can.  Yes, I spent most of the race embarrassed, and being hard on myself for not being a better, faster runner.  Questioning myself for not losing more weight ahead of time and training harder.  But at tht moment, 1hr and 18 minutes after starting the run, (and not walking once), I decided I was going to just feel proud.  And my goal now is to never, ever see those police cars in a race again!

Enjoy the climb

I had stared down that empty country road many times.  I could barely remember what it looked like beyond the stop sign where I used to turn.  I hadn’t been down that road in a while, about 11 months in fact.  I tried to be positive, but inside my head I kept wondering if I would ever make it that far again.  Yesterday, only a few minutes after blogging about my fitness struggles, I laced up my running shoes again and hit the road.  Deacus was enjoying a visit with a friend (Thank you Taunya!!), and I was off to attempt another 7km.  I looked down at the ground for most of the run, dodging rocks and bugs, convincing myself it was only a little bit further.  A few km’s in, to my shock, I felt good.  I felt a glimmer of what I used to feel when I’d run.  Tired, but strong.  The wind was at my back (literally), and I felt as though I was physically being given that push I needed mentally.  I looked down at my Garmin (my trusty, yet quite old GPS watch that I couldn`t live without), checking my pace and time every couple minutes.  I could hardly believe it when I hit the 4km mark, turned at that stop sign that I hadn’t made it to in so long, and kept running.  It was at that moment when I decided today is the day!  I am doing it!  That hill that I had struggled with so many times, suddenly didn`t seem so big.  A challenging, but bearable 5km more and I was back home.  I did it!  10km!!  This 10km consisted of 1hr 8 minutes consecutive running, followed by a 4 minute walk then 9 more minutes of running.  Yes, it took me 1hr 21 minutes.  I have a lot of room for improvement, but I am proud to be able to say that I did it!  12 weeks since my sons birth, and 6 weeks into my training, I ran my first 10km!  I really didn’t think I could do it until I got out there and proved it (to myself).  I had lost the confidence I used to have.  I had been trying to stay positive, and be patient with myself and my new body.  But deep down, the fat girl inside me was telling me my body and confidence were gone forever and that a 10k run was too much for me.  I believed I was weaker now – physically and mentally.  Boy was I wrong.  The minute I started to believe in myself again, my outlook and progress changed – instantly.  As I ran, I just put one foot in front of the other, and told myself quitting wasn’t an option.  I began to feel such a feeling of accomplishment.  For the first time in a long time, I was proud of myself and the person I was working toward becoming.  I couldn’t wait to tell my husband and have him give me a high five and say “good job”.  Knowing that on inside he`d be glowing with pride.  Besides myself, he is the only other person who I know would really understand and appreciate what I had just done, and what it meant to me.  I vowed to him while I was pregnant that I would not be an out of shape wife and mother, and I felt good that I was on my way to keeping that promise.  I believe I am a better wife and mother and a happier person when I am fit, and my son and husband deserve that woman.  I deserve to be that woman!  This would be one of the most difficult, but more rewarding journey’s of my life.

I immediately think of the amazing ladies who have come before me and set the bar so high.  I am proud to know you, and hope to someday join you up there.  I’m up for the challenge.  It wouldn’t be that fun to be at the top of the mountain all the time anyways, would it?  Ok – maybe it would be a little fun.  But for now I’m going to give myself credit for what I’ve accomplished so far, and enjoy the climb.  To Victoria, a certain mom I know who recently ran 10km in 48 minutes, wow!  You inspire me, and push me to be better.  I hope to someday run beside you.

My weekly appointment with the dreaded scale

Thursday marked Deacus’ 12th week of life, and my 6th week of working out post c-section.  My progress has been ok, but I am nowhere near where I expected to be.  Somehow I dreamed my body wouldn’t mind the 9+ months of torture it had endured, and would cooperate when I told it to run 10km.  Pre-baby, I didn’t have a running plan.  I was relatively fit from exercising and running 5km or so regularly, and just decided one morning to try 10km – and I did it.  I wasn’t fast, but I did it without much trouble, and continued to run it often and increase my time from there.  Don’t get me wrong, it was hard, but I was able to physically do it.  It was more of a mental challenge.  These days my mental strength cannot mask the pain in my knees and the extra weight I’m carrying prevents my body from doing as it’s told.  I can push it, (and I do!) but only so far.  It is tough to feel so restricted by my own body, and to have lost the freedom to be in charge.  I will get back to where I was (won’t I?), but right now this is the body I have to work with.  This morning I stepped on the scale to see how I was progressing, hoping my track pants might start to fit a little less snug, and that my knees may have a little less to carry on my next run.  Or dare I wish I might even get into a pair of jeans again!  Most days I’m just glad the scale doesn’t just call me a fatso and tell me to get off!  So, how much of those 93 lbs had I shed in 6 weeks?  The scale beeped at me and gave me the good news.  I am officially down 57lbs.  Today was a good day.  With 36lbs to go, I might just get into jeans and even put on heels again at some point in the next few months!  With visions of the tiny stilettos snapping off from under me, I didn’t want to risk heels until I was closer to my goal weight.  Suddenly I found myself thinking of how the average woman gains around 35lbs total during pregnancy.  TOTAL.  I still have enough extra weight to be carrying a small child inside of me.  With 2 weeks until the 10km, and me still being 3km away from that goal, I had to put these thoughts out of my mind and hit the pavement.   Pre-baby I remember thinking I’d gain a lot of weight (I know myself and my body well!) but that I’d get back in shape fast.  What else would I have to do, right?  I could workout every day since I’d have all the time in the world.  WRONG!  Any mommy knows one of the biggest challenges is finding the time to workout.  After sleepless nights, and days that don’t ever really end, if I manage to muster up the motivation to exercise, now I have to figure out what to do with the little guy.  He’s a well behaved baby, but that doesn’t mean he is going to allow me to leave him on his playmat for more than 10 minutes that day.  So I can try interval training at home – 10 min run, 1 min insert soother back in baby’s mouth, and repeat.  My next option is leaving him with the gym’s childcare – a 17 year old girl who’s probably never even held a 3 month old, or has any interest to, (but for $10.50/hr. will do it).  No offence to the staff at the gym, I am sure they are lovely.  I have yet to even be to the gym since having Deacus, but this is how I picture it and it terrifies me to leave him there.  He still seems so little and fragile.  Where has my independance gone?  The days of getting up and going anywhere I wanted to, at any hour, are long gone!  Any outting now requires a jumbo sized duffle bag with all the goodies a 3 month old should need over the course of a few hours.  Including lots of diapers and changes of clothes in case we have any explosions (and we have many!).  I can see how fitness sometimes takes a backseat after children.  Even though it’s a time when fitness should be in the forefront.  I want to set an example for him.  I want to live a long, healthy life, and have the energy to be an active mom to my boy.  But sometimes it feels impossible.  Luckily, today I  have a friend who is kind enough to come all the way to my house and watch the little man while I get in some much needed exercise.  As hard as running is for me, I am beginning to enjoy my time on the road again.  Every part of my body hurts as I work towards getting my body back, and actually being able to complete a run without feeling the dreaded “out of shape pain”.  But while I’m out there I have time to think (and write my next blog in my head), and have some time for Shannon.  I love being a mom to Deacus, and I love being a wife to Nick.  But sometimes I need to just be Shannon.  For me, running helps me find her.  The girl I thought I lost a few short months ago.  The happy, healthy girl, full of energy who can look in the mirror without feeling ashamed of what’s staring back at her.  She’s still in there – somewhere.  And I believe one of these days, maybe on a long run in the middle of nowhere, I’ll find here and bring her back with me.  Until then, I will keep running, give myself some credit for my progress so far, and tell myself what I tell Deacus when we have a rough day of crying fits and no sleep.  It’s ok – tomorrow will be better!

Deacus Alexander…his first breaths

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So while I was wheeled off to recovery, my baby boy was struggling to breathe in the NICU, his daddy by his side.  I kept waiting for someone to walk in with that face I was dreading, that told me all I needed to know.  Fortunately that didn’t happen.  I found out later from Nick that Dr’s and nurses were swarming our baby, hooking him up to all kinds of devices to find out what was wrong and to help him breathe.  I don’t think I really grasped the seriousness of the situation at the time.  I was still in shock, and maybe a bit of denial.  I couldn’t even tell you what his face looked like.  One minute I was pregnant, and the next I wasn’t, and my baby was gone.  I just couldn’t, or wouldn’t fathom the thought of him not making it.  I was pretty relaxed about all the things that had happened to me that day, but this was hard to handle.  It was days later when the Dr. taking care of Deacus introduced himself to me as “the Dr. who saved your baby’s life”.  It was then that I understood how close we were to losing him.  I remember still being numb from the waist down and being wheeled into the NICU that day for our first visit.  I couldn’t help but cry when I saw him.  He was this helpless little guy enclosed in plastic, tubes coming out of his nose, an IV in his tiny little hand, and wires connected to his chest and little feet.  I wasn’t allowed to touch him.  Often touch is encouraged, but in this case contact would actually make things worse for him.  It would change his breathing when he would react to it, and this was what they were trying to regulate.  My poor little guy, alone and in pain during his first moments of life.  It was heartbreaking.  I felt helpless.  We found out soon after that he had a pneumothorax.  They described this to us as a “leaky lung”.  He basically had a hole in his lung that needed to heal before he would be able to breathe normally on his own.  He was on oxygen for days, was on an IV and was fed through a tube for the first few days.  He was given x-rays and checked daily to see if it was healing.  If his tiny lung didn’t heal with these methods, the next options were much more invasive.  The first day he didn’t improve, but wasn’t worse.  We tried to think positive – at least he wasn’t getting worse!  He remained in the NICU, and I recovered in my own room in the hospital.  Sitting up was a challenge.  It took me about 10 minutes to try and prop myself up, and another 20 to dangle my legs off the bed and attempt to get myself into an upright position.  My arms shook as I tried to move my body without using my abdomen.  (It’s impossible to sit or stand up without using your abs, by the way.  But I sure tried!)  The first time I stood, I thought for sure my stitches were ripping open.  The nurses assured me they weren’t.  I stood hunched over, and couldn’t move more than an inch or two at a time.  My only motivation to move out of that bed at all was to get to see Deacus!  The nurses said If I could get into a wheelchair, Nick was ok to take me to visit him.  I had told Nick prior to being admitted, that all I wanted was an “It’s a boy balloon”, but now I was thinking I deserved something more.  Maybe a card or something.  I made it into that wheelchair.  Our first visits were tough.  It was surreal, and overwhelming.  He didn’t make a sound.  I asked one of the nurses (who were incredible), why he didn’t ever cry?  She said he was too sick to cry.  Again – heartbreaking.  We were allowed to touch him at this point, through a hole in the incubator.  We watched him and touched his little hand for as long as I could handle each day, before needing to get back to a reclined position.  I remember on the second or third day of him being  in the NICU, the nurse told me if I came at 6am the next morning he would just be getting back from his x-rays and be out of the incubator for a short while, so I might be able to hold him.  I was SO excited!  I set the alarm on my Blackberry and the next morning I started making my way over to the NICU.  It took me quite a while to get myself out of bed and get over there, but I did it, and was on time.  Sadly when I arrived I was told he wouldn’t be up for a visit that day.  The x-ray was all he could handle, and he needed to get back on the oxygen.  He was already back in the incubator.  I sat by him for as long as I could handle then made my way back to my room, feeling a bit defeated.  I remember how positive Nick was through this entire process.  I think he is what kept me from having a breakdown, though I did have my teary moments.  I remember him telling me we had to be strong for our son.  He was right.  And so we stayed strong.  Ironically, when Nick was born he had lung issues and ended up in an incubator.  He was very close to not making it, and ended up having emergency surgery.  We both had looked at the pictures of him in that incubator a hundred times, but it never really meant as much to us as it did now.  It was just a picture, and in front of me stood a strong, healthy Nick.  But now I can appreciate what his parents must have gone through.  Like father, like son!  They both are fighters, and both made it through.  I remember Grandpa V (Nick’s dad) came to visit little Deacus and he said to me that someday we will look back, and this will just be part of his story.  Wise, and comforting words.  And thankfully he was right.  Sunday March 11th, Deacus was 100% and ready to go home.  Luckily the Dr. assured us that this is not a condition that can re-occur, or cause an issues for him later in life.  And at 12 weeks old today, he is a very healthy, happy boy.  Do things like this really happen for a reason?  I’m not sure I believe that anymore, even though I do find I tell myself that during these times.  I do know for sure that we are all stronger having been through it.  And most of all, I am grateful that things turned out how they did.  And that we left that hospital with a beautiful, healthy, chubby cheeked boy (who is no longer too sick to cry), and my balloon.  And to the amazing nurses in recovery and the NICU who made this difficult situation a bit easier for us to handle – Thank you!  These nurses take on a lot every day, we saw that first hand.  Their patience and kindness is incredible, and will not be forgotten!