Wringing out the time to run

When I am in the elevator at work at lunchtime, dressed in my running getup, colleagues often ask me where I find the time to run. I resist the urge to answer with an exaggerated glance at my watch.

I feel obnoxious enough as it is in my tights and cap and headphones, a reluctant ambassador of the message, if I can fit it in, you should be able to fit it in too!

Don’t worry, I know it’s not true, you don’t have to tell me! Not everybody can allocate the time to exercise. There are only so many hours in a day. And if you’ve got too much shit to do, then you gotta do your shit instead. I get it, believe me!

I am no superwoman. Yes, I have two little kids, a full-time job, a household to upkeep, a board of directors to sit on, lawns to mow, basement leaks to mop up, parenting books to read, speech therapy to administer, back-floats to teach. I do all that stuff because I have to look after my family.

But I also have to look after me. I am a critical pillar in my family. If I crumble, it all falls down. Not just all around me, but right on top of me.

I think all moms know that they have to look after themselves. Don’t get me wrong, I know there are plenty of moms out there who are suffering because they are the stump of the totem pole, buried deep in the dirt through no fault of their own. But I think that any mom who is surviving, is taking the time to look after themselves somehow.

There are plenty of ways in which moms can look after themselves. And how you choose to do that is deeply personal. What works for one mom might not work for another. And you have to factor in time, energy, money, and most importantly, net benefit to your soul.

My life is complicated enough as it is. When I became a parent, I decided I would always have one thing on the go that was mine. Just one thing. Over the years that has taken several forms, sometimes it’s blogging, or it could be writing a novel, or renovating a bathroom, or some kind of athletic pursuit.

Right now, I’m training for my first triathlon. And it’s a lot of training, putting miles into three different disciplines. It’s a challenge, for sure. But it’s keeping my weight in check, keeping me fit and strong, allowing me to blow off steam, and giving me something to look forward to.

Make no mistake, it comes at a price. I don’t take breaks at work, I don’t socialize with colleagues at lunch. I don’t read novels or magazines anymore, I don’t write, I don’t bake. I hardly go out at all because I’m pretty pooped a lot of the time.

Not much to admire, is it people? Running isn’t for everyone and I’m not challenging anybody but myself when I go out. I choose to run, you choose to have a relaxing lunch with your colleagues. Neither is better than the other. All I know is what’s right for me, so I wring out the time for it.

Annabel Constance Duncan 1917-2009

I've dreaded this day from the very time I knew the first thing about death. Dreaded it, like it was going to be the worst day in the history of the world. And it's a sad occasion, of course. But it's not as bad as I thought it was going to be. Because nana had a good long life, and her time had come. And I think a lot of us here feel a certain peace about it. Like the end of a good book.

There were many layers to nana. On the outside she was beautiful and poised and kind and attentive, and proper. My boyfriends were always terrified to eat at her house because they knew she would scrutinize their table manners.

But there was so much more to her than that. Nana loved nothing more than a good laugh. She liked to come off as a bit of a prude, but deep down, she wasn't one. And she was a merciless game player. Just because you were small and cute and fluffy didn't mean she wasn't going to eviscerate you. Gleefully.

I remember once when I was about 8, and we were playing scrabble up at a cottage, and she got this gleam in her eye while studying her rack. And very deliberately, on the board, she tacked an S on the end of a word, and continued downward, with H.....I.....T.

Nana was infinitely patient. I don't remember her ever getting angry with me. But that didn't mean she didn't effectively convey disapproval. Nana had this amazing ability to let you know she wasn't impressed by smiling AND laughing! That's a real skill.

And honestly, for a woman of her generation, she really didn't get too worked up about things, she was pretty easy to reason with. But let me tell you, get a bad haircut or gain a few pounds and you wouldn't hear the end of it!

My nana was a perfectionist, and a tireless self-critic. No matter what she cooked or baked, she always thought it was overdone or underdone or dry or burnt...she went through a bunch of different ovens and of course none of them ever worked. It was always the first topic of discussion at mealtime, though we all enjoyed her food immensely.

My brother and I have a ton of fond memories of nana's cooking. She used to make us smashed eggs and jello and oval bran muffins and ginger snaps and homemade mac and cheese with the crumbs on top. There was a lot of love in that food. Which she made in precisely calculated quantities to ensure nobody would ever get more than one serving. It left us in a perpetual state of longing for her food.

My brother especially loved her lemon meringue pie, and she made it special for him one time, and he devoured the crust and filling, saving the best for last--nana's fluffy meringue topping. And in a matter of seconds the table erupted in surprise and commotion, my brother nearly in tears and my nana in gales of laughter--she had forgotten to put the sugar in the meringue. She had a tremendous ability to laugh at herself. And....to forget things.

Even though nana's memory deteriorated rapidly in the last few years, her memory was never her strongest suit. And I am willing to bet that everybody here has been privy to her difficulty getting people's names right off the bat--she'd flip through her mental rolodex--aloud--until she landed on your name. Mine was always BarDebDonBecky.

But she always laughed about it. And once she went home with Donna and the Woodses, though she didn't remember much, she was happy and relaxed and radiant and beautiful. And she laughed a lot. I mean, if you're going to lose your memory, isn't that such a gift? To preserve your ability to lagh and smile and enjoy life? That was nana.

In the six days in between when she had her catastrophic stroke and when she finally let go, I thought about her constantly. One day when I was changing, my daughter was standing alone in my darkened closet and out of the blue she said "Annabel!?!?!?!" She says a girl came into her mind and she was a new grownup with black hair. And I thought yep, if nana were to appear, that's how she would look. Young and fresh and beautiful.

Later that day, I went into my darkened closet alone, hoping she would come to me. And she did, through whatever construct of my mind or imagination. And she said to me "Don't worry BarDebDonBecky. Enjoy your life. OK dear? Bye bye." And that was it...she was always really hurried to end conversations because she was so averse to long distance charges...and I saw her waltz away in my mind. Dancing, like she loved to do. And I really believe that this was her parting message to me. She worried a lot in her life, and at a certain point I guess she stopped. And enjoyed life so much more without it.

When I got that final phone call, I immediately felt like the world was a less sweet place. Like someone had taken the sugar out of the meringue. My nana singlehandedly raised the niceness quotient of the entire world. And I think we have a lot to make up for, as people who had the privilege of knowing her and being loved by her.

We should all strive to be as patient...as kind...as caring....as attentive...and funny...and beautiful...as nana was.

Post traumatic stress disorder of the snow variety

Kids are supposed to love winter and snow. Think about it! Snow angels! Sledding! Christmas! Snowmen! Snowball fights! Huzzah!

The other day Jonas and I got on the lamentable topic of winter. Sadie overheard us, and her eyes grew big and watery.

"Oh NO!" she said. "Winter is coming and there is gonna be SNOW on the ground! I won't be able to ride my tricycle in the park because there will be SNOW!" You'd think she was talking about chest-deep blood and gore.

Sadie's only memory of snow is of the traumatic twelve foot variety. Snow that is too deep to even fathom playing in.

I think it was July when someone on the radio said the word 'snow' and it filled me with dread. Last winter was still too fresh in my memory for that to bounce off me. Usually by September I'm warming up to the idea of winter fun. But last year? Man, 'winter fun' was a total fucking oxymoron.

I still get nervous making left turns. Last winter, with the twelve-foot snow banks, it was a leap of faith that there was no oncoming traffic. You just sort of had to shut your eyes and hope for the best.

Forecast after forecast called for huge amounts of snowfall. By January we were all laughing about it, asking how it was possible. By February nobody was so much as cracking a smile. By March we had lost all hope and made our peace with the fact that we would never see grass again.

Summer did come, but it came abruptly. One Monday in late April, we were still trudging through thigh-deep snow. By Friday, the park was crawling with kids in t-shirts, not a flake of snow in sight.

Summer found us gasping for warmth and fresh air. And last winter was so suffocating, that we're still trying to catch our breath. And the mere mention of the word 'snow' is enough to take it away entirely.

I'm going to run the marathon, for all bereaved parents

Last week, my good friend's little boy passed away suddenly. He had just turned a year old. He was the sweetest, fluffiest, nicest and most hard-won little boy, with such a gentle disposition and the kind of smile that you could feel in your heart.

Needless to say, my friend is in the worst kind of agony imaginable. It is the worst thing in the world. I know there's nothing I can do to make her feel better, but I wanted to figure out at least how not to make her feel worse. Or how to be supportive.

In my research, I came across an organization in Toronto called Bereaved Families of Ontario. They are a volunteer-led organization that offers group support sessions and matches newly bereaved parents up with other parents who have lived through the same hell on earth. My friend has been in contact with them, and hopefully she will be able to benefit from their programs when she is ready.

Some of you may know that I have been doing the Marathon clinic at the Running Room, with no real intention of running a marathon, because marathons are for lunatics. I just wanted to see how far I could take it. It's really hard, but I'm still in the game.

I noticed on the Bereaved Families of Ontario website that they have a team running in the Scotiabank Waterfront Marathon. Everything just sort of made sense and came together, and I decided to join the team and run for my friend and for all the parents in Ontario who have suffered through the loss of a child. It will be agony for me, but my agony will not even register on the scale of agony that bereaved parents experience.

I am really not normally a fund-raisery person or a seriously sponsor-y person either, so this is really unusual for me. But if you would like to sponsor me, I'd really appreciate it, and I really think you'd be helping out a lot. This organization doesn't have the profile that breast cancer does, or heart disease or whatnot, but what they do is very very valuable and important. And let's hope that none of us will ever ever have to find out first hand just how important it is.

I noticed while I was browsing the site, that there is an Alison Parrott memorial library as part of the organization. I went to grade school with Alison (as did many of you), and in fact was on the same lunchtime track team as her. Her mother is quite active with the organization. All the more fitting that I should do this.

Here is the link to sponsor me. Heartfelt thanks for reading this, and for pledging any amount that you can.

http://my.e2rm.com/personalPage.aspx?registrationID=480353&LangPref=en-CA

Kind stars

Yesterday just before lunch I nipped out to go grocery shopping with Benson. I was having a pretty good grocery cart day, and in fact, I could hear the grocery cart I was *meant* to have about two aisles over. It was a strange mix of joy and empathy. I almost wanted to go up to the guy and apologize for the mixup, but sanity prevailed and I finished my shopping trip with no swears. When I got home, somebody had broken in, and done the dishes and left me a bowl of macaroni and cheese. That's just the kind of day it was.

iRun, iCost a lot.

I often wonder how cavepeople did it. Like, how did they train for marathons without maps and heart rate monitors? And they would have had to bring musicians with them, since they didn't have portable music players. Can you imagine how fit you'd have to be to be a drummer in that scenario?

I used to think running was cheap. Slap on a pair of running shoes and off you go. No membership required. But this has actually turned out to be the most expensive athletic endeavour I have ever undertaken.

Running 40-50k a week requires a significant quantity of apparel. First of all, you can only wear something once before it stinks to high heaven. And all this stuff is made of high-tech polyester fabric which must be air-dried. So if you're doing laundry once a week, you need five of everything. Five bras, five pairs of pants and shirts in each length (short, medium and long). Don't even get me started on shoes.

But that's nothing compared to the electronic requirements. Back in my more casual running days all I needed was my walkman. Remember those? The ones that played tapes? Mine even had a GRAPHIC EQUALIZER. I went through a brief period where I tried running with a discman but that was pretty fu-fu....fufufufufu...fu-fu-fuuuuuuuuuu....futile.

Then along came MP3 players. They didn't skip! And they were light! But you need a computer to load stuff onto them, so that's a pretty significant total expense. Then somewhere along the line it became necessary for me to monitor my heart rate and time my runs. Back then, a Polar was a pricey little gadget for what it did.

Fast forward to today. My girlfriend coerced me into signing up for a marathon training clinic "just for fun". While we're at it, let's pour hot sauce on our eyeballs and snort wasabi powder! Wheeee!

We are nearly halfway through the program, and I am deeply ashamed at how much money I have spent on gadgetry. It started innocently enough with an iTouch, which is essentially a tiny computer not much bigger than a credit card. I ran with it once, and realized that the little darling would not mix well with sweat and rain.

So my dear husband bought me an iShuffle, an adorable little thing that just clips inconspicuously onto your hem. But when he tried to download stuff onto it, our laptop crapped out. So we had to buy a new laptop that could handle our new iGadgets.

Not two days later, my Polar heart rate monitor died. I saw this as a sign that I should buy a Garmin Forerunner 405, so that satellites in outer space could track my route, pace and distance and plot it all against my heart rate and load it all onto my computer before I even sit down to stretch afterwards. Seriously, how did cavepeople do it without satellites?

Only problem is, I am horribly technologically inept. The user manuals for all these things could fill the library of congress. I may have a shiny new laptop that can handle all the gadgetry, but my three remaining brain cells cannot. Lucky for me I have the ultimate gadget that figures all this stuff out while I sit there and drool blankly. It is called Jonas and everyone should have one.

Benson, Queen of the Dairy Kings